Thunderwalkers - A Doc Savage Adventure
by The Grey Piper
Summary: Doc Savage and his team of troublebusters are up to their necks in international intrigue as they try to help Poland defend herself from aggressive national neighbors - in 1939! They have to out-wit and out-gadget an entire country, and come up with the most astonishing gadget yet! Can even the Savage team stop a brutal dictator from plunging Europe into war? In the original style.


Thunderwalkers

A Doc Savage Adventure

by Kenneth Robeson, Jr.

Chapter I – One Angry Man

"You no-good, two-bit ambulance-chaser!" A very angry man stomped along the bronze-hued carpet of an office in mid-town Manhattan. He followed a tall, dapper gentleman, dressed as if for the opera.

"Now isn't that a little harsh between friends?" replied the tall man.

"You disgrace to the bar! You shyster! Of all the low-down, twisted stunts! Why aren't you at City General's emergency room looking for clients!"

"Come now, not in front of Doc."

The two men now stood in the middle of possibly the most extra-ordinary office in a city noted for being extra-ordinary in all things.

The angry man was short and wide. Hairy arms dangled almost to his knees. Fists knotted into wads of bone and gristle dangerously, and he eyed his quarry from beneath occipital ridges which would have more fittingly adorned one of the lower species of primate. This man bore the formal name of Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair. His nickname was Monk. The nickname fitted him well. Very few men held the privilege of addressing him by that nickname.

"Aren't you over-reacting, Monk?" asked the taller man. The taller man was known professionally as Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Esq. He was one of the most distinguished alumni Harvard Law School had ever graduated. His reputation in legal circles was equaled by his reputation in the fashion world – Park Avenue tailors fought for his business as hungrily as would-be clients sought his legal advice. A select handful of men were allowed to address him as "Ham".

"Ham" turned and addressed the squat figure trailing him. A bewildered smile creased his lips, but his eyes twinkled with merciless glee. "Monk, my dear friend, don't you comprehend that I have done two noble things? I have benefitted a public institution, while commemorating our own great friendship, and you have just –"

"Rat's teeth! And drop that slick lawyer tone when you're talkin' to me!" Monk stomped by wrathfully, and addressed a third man, whose office they had unceremoniously entered. "Doc, you know what this sneaky, conniving, blot on the landscape has done now? He bought a gorilla and donated it to the city zoo, with the sole stipulation that the creature be named 'Mayfair'! 'Mayfair'! Of all the stinkin', dirty, double-crossin' conniving, dirty –" Andrew Blodgett "Monk" Mayfair's voice choked and died as he realized he was running out of epithets and repeating himself. He stood there, breathing noisily, looking as if he was about to erupt into flames.

Behind him, Ham had collapsed into a shiny black leather chair, doubled up in mirth.

Before him stood Clark Savage, Jr. Doc Savage! Nearly the whole world knew him by that name. A giant of a man, a mental and physical wonder, terrible nemesis of wrongdoers. Doc Savage was gazing out the window and into the streets eighty-six floors below.

A faint smile traced the bronze skin of his face. Rarely did he allow any emotion to betray his inner thoughts and feelings. "I suspect, Monk, that we shall soon have some business to take your mind off of your trouble."

Monk and Ham immediately changed their demeanors and fixed keen looks of anticipation on Doc Savage, their sparring done.

"What–" began Monk, and stopped short as Doc cut him off with a brief shake of his head.

A few minutes ticked by in silence. Doc continued studying the streets below. His two associates sat, nerves on edge, ready to jump into action at Doc's word.

Z-z-z-z-z-z!

A shrill buzzer broke the silence with its loud, high-pitched alarm. Ham and Monk started in their seats. Doc, as if he had been expecting it, strode unhurriedly to his massive desk. He pressed a button and spoke into a microphone. "Clark Savage, Jr. speaking."

A worried voice replied over the intercom. "Mr. Savage? This is Willard, in the lobby. There's some trouble down here and I thought–"

The remainder of Willard's statement was never heard by the three men. As one, they had raced out of the office and down the corridor. At the end of the bank of elevators, one stood with its door open. This was Doc Savage's own private elevator. The doors slammed together, and the floor fell out from under the men, or so it seemed. This was an especially built lift that fell like a stone and rose like a rocket. Occasionally, even one of Doc's own associates found himself collapsed in a heap on the floor when the speed elevator made its bone-jarring stops.

Not two minutes later, Doc, Monk, and Ham raced out into the elegant lobby of one of New York City's tallest and most notable skyscrapers. This was a lobby where many well-to-do men and women of the highest of New York's businessmen and social set passed through every day. It was not a lobby where one might expect to find a body lying face down on the polished marble floor, blood trickling from a bullet wound in the neck. Unfortunately, that is precisely what was found this day.

"Nobody move! Guard the doors!" Doc Savage's voice rang through the uproar of the lobby. His was not an especially loud voice, but it carried clearly to every corner of the vast hall. "Who called me?" he asked.

A nervous-looking man in a well-made uniform scurried up. He was sweating freely, and his eyes were moist behind thick, steel-framed spectacles. "I– I did– sir– Mr. Savage, sir. Willard Marmelot. I'm reception manager and I was covering the regular day man at the reception desk so he could go get a cup of coffee and–"

"What happened, Mr. Marmelot?" Doc queried. The sound of his remarkable voice seemed to calm the nervous reception manager somewhat.

"Well, sir, I didn't see a lot. It's been rather busy at the desk today, but I heard a bit of a commotion by the elevators, so I looked, and it looked like two men were fighting. There was a crowd around, and I couldn't see a lot, but I heard what I thought was a gunshot. One man went running, and the other man, who had been shot, managed to stagger back toward the reception desk, and that's when he collapsed, oh dear Mr. Savage, is he dead? In my lobby?"

Doc had already felt the body for a pulse, and Monk had held a mirror to check for breathing. Doc spoke to Willard Marmelot. "You should call for the police and an ambulance, if you have not already done so, Mr. Marmelot. Did you hear the dead man say anything before he fell? Did you suspect he was coming to see me?"

"N- no sir, Mr. Savage, sir, but it's standing orders down here to call your office immediately if anything funny happens, even before the police."

Willard Marmelot was still dripping perspiration, and his plumpish cheeks were flushed. "Oh my! I'll call them now – unless you have anything more to ask me first."

"Call them," directed Doc.

Doc then sought out Ham and Monk, who had been circulating through the crowd.

"Nothing good, Doc," piped Monk. "Half a dozen people saw it happen, and they all say the killer ducked out a service entrance over there, and onto the street." He pointed to an obscure door, far removed from the massive glass revolving doors which were the building's main entrance.

Doc had knelt down by the body, and was swiftly checking through the dead man's pockets. In the man's inner jacket pocket was a small booklet with a sheet of yellow paper tucked inside it.

"Weee-ooow!" Monk whistled.

Ham arched his eyebrows in surprise. "That's a diplomatic passport!" he exclaimed.

Doc extracted the sheet folded into the passport. On the outside was written, in bold capital letters: "DOC SAVAGE". He tucked the paper into his own jacket pocket, and flipped through the passport before returning it to the man's clothing. Ham and Monk both knew that that was all Doc needed to memorize every bit of information in the passport.

As the three headed back toward the elevators, Willard Marmelot skittered up. "Err, excuse me, Mr. Savage, sir, but, uh, may we open the doors back up now?"

"Yes," said Doc quietly. "I do not think the police will find the murderer in the lobby now in any case."

Doc and his men walked over to the door by which the shooter had fled. Many pairs of eyes followed the imposing figure of Doc Savage. Tall and powerfully built he was, with skin bronze from exposure to harsh tropic sun and Arctic freeze, and close-cropped hair a shade darker than the skin. He removed a small box from his vest, opened it, and dusted the door for fingerprints. The only discernible traces were old. "Undoubtedly the assailant wore gloves," surmised Doc.

The speed elevator then returned the three to the eighty-sixth floor in as breathtaking a manner as it had removed them.

Back in the office, Doc unfolded the paper. An eerie trilling filled the room, like the call of an exotic tropical bird. It came from everywhere, and nowhere. Ham and Monk recognized the sound as coming from Doc. It was a sound he emitted nearly unconsciously: it expressed surprise, or understanding, or sometimes functioned as a battle cry. To Ham and Monk it meant one thing: action!

"It is a telegram from Renny." Doc observed. He passed it to the two.

"This ain't no Western Union slip!" Monk exclaimed.

"Why would a diplomat be acting as a messenger boy?" inquired Ham.

"Clam up, you over-dressed half-wit," advised Monk, "and let me read it. 'have solved stabilization problem using multiple gyro units as suggested stop long tom has perfected control system stop full success imminent stop renny.' Doc, what kind of a passport was that dead guy carrying?"

"A diplomatic one, you evolutionary throwback," jibed Ham.

Ignoring the barbs that had resumed flight between the two, Doc replied, "It seems our late friend was accredited to the Polish Consulate here in New York. I surmise that this telegram was transmitted, encrypted, from Warsaw."

"Warsaw?" Ham and Monk echoed.

"Correct. Renny and Long Tom have been working there since late last year on a private project, under contract to the government of Poland."

"Renny" was Colonel John Renwick, "Long Tom" was Major Thomas Roberts. The first was an engineer, pre-eminent in his field, the second, a genius of electricity. They were also two more of Doc Savage's team of adventurers.

"What are they doing, Doc?" asked Monk.

By Doc's reply, one would think he had not heard the question put to him; this however, was a habit of his to which his men were accustomed. "I think we should visit the Polish Consulate," he remarked. "And that of the Preussen Republic at another time."

"Preussen?" echoed Ham. "You believe they may be involved?"

"Shortly before you entered, I observed a limousine in the street below. A man wearing a dark trenchcoat and hat exited. The limousine turned around the block, and a few moments later was speeding back in the opposite direction. I estimate it would have had exactly enough time to have driven to the opposite side of the building and picked up the assassin before coming in to view again. The limousine bore diplomatic license plates. Preussen's current emblem was clearly visible on the plates."

"The crossed lightning bolts?" breathed Monk.

"Correct," Doc affirmed.

"They're pretty nasty customers these days," observed Ham. He toyed absently with his slender black walking stick. This was Ham's favorite fashion accessory: it was in fact a razor-sharp sword cane, its blade treated with a powerful dope. The smallest cut would render the victim unconscious in seconds. As one of Doc Savage's assistants, this was a feature that Ham found frequently useful.

Monk's eyes were gleaming, and his fists were clenching and unclenching in anticipation of a brawl. "Howlin' calamities! What are we doing standin' around for? Let's get going!"

Chapter II – Diplomatic Immunity

Two stories below the streets of New York was a construction few citizens suspected to exist. This was a private garage where Doc Savage kept a number of remarkable automobiles. Examples of coupes, sedans, roadsters, and the like were here maintained in peak condition by Doc himself. Most were quite ordinary-looking, deceptively so. This was deliberate. Most appeared to be more than several years old and seemed rusted and worn, if not downright hazards to life and limb. In fact, the battered exteriors concealed high-powered motors, especially modified by Doc, and most were bulletproofed in both the body and the windshield. A few were airtight with their own air-recirculating system. These machines employed a special chemical system such as that used in submarines, which rendered them immune to poison gas attacks, and would even allowed the occupants to survive for an indefinite time underwater.

It was into one of the non-descript sedans that the three piled after another gut-wrenching fall in the speed elevator. Monk took the wheel, and piloted the motor up the ramp and out of the concealed entrance, blending smoothly into the traffic of mid-town Manhattan.

Doc frequently preferred to ride outside the car, standing on the running board, the better to watch for danger. Today, he rode within, preferring to remain inconspicuous.

As the sedan turned the corner of East 72nd St., approaching the Polish Consulate, Doc said, "We're being followed. Keep driving."

Monk growled softly to himself, annoyed he had missed the tail. Glancing into the mirrors, he observed a large black car several lengths back. It could have been a limousine. Ham, too, watched the mirrors a moment. "I'd wager that vehicle has the crossed lightning bolts on its plate," he commented.

"Head for the waterfront," ordered Doc.

Monk accelerated past the consulate which had been their destination, turning left on First Avenue, heading toward Harlem, New York's famous Negro district. Traffic had thinned out considerably, and the black limousine was now separated from Doc's sedan by a single taxi-cab. Monk turned down a side street. The limousine turned after them, and in a burst of speed, roared past the sedan, only to dive abruptly in front of them.

Brakes screamed as Monk hit the pedal, and the sedan slammed, nose-first, into the limousine. The men were unhurt, thanks to a new device of Doc's, an arrangement of straps which held driver and passengers into their seats so that sudden impacts would not hurl them into the windshield and dashboard.

Ahead, three men jumped out of the limousine. They carried wicked-looking machine guns, and immediately opened fire on the sedan. A storm of hot lead battered the windshield and hood.

Monk attempted to reverse away from the swarm of bullets, but the wheels had caught on the sidewalk, and the tires only spun furiously against the pavement, throwing up a cloud of acrid, dense smoke. Moving so quickly that neither Ham nor Monk had realized it, Doc had opened the door of the sedan and was returning fire at almost point-blank range.

A compact automatic pistol roared like a bull-fiddle! Doc's own invention, these guns could spray a stream of bullets as solidly as a fire hose does water. However, Doc and his men routinely employed only "mercy bullets", cartridges charged with hollow capsules carrying a fast-acting anesthetic chemical which merely caused quick unconsciousness rather than death. It was the same compound which coated the dapper Ham's sword cane blade.

Doc Savage had a strict policy of never taking human life where it was at all possible to avoid it, although quite a few of the thugs Doc encountered met death at their own hands, having fallen victim to their own fatal devices. Doc rarely, in fact, used firearms himself, on the theory that relying on them rendered a man more vulnerable when without one. But in this case, with three machine guns rattling at him from scant feet away, the bronze man's options were limited.

B-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! Doc's superfirer roared again. His first burst had been over the heads of the three machine-gunners. Undaunted, the trio aimed at Doc and let fly again. A few slugs skipped off the pavement and below the sedan door behind which Doc was shielded; he felt the slugs strike his feet and ankles. He himself aimed lower this time, and saw his own shots shred holes in the fabric of the men's trousers, just below the knees.

Their firing ceased, and profanities in a foreign tongue blistered the air. As the first gunner started to sway on his feet, an arm from inside the limousine shot out, and heaved the three back inside. The limousine engine revved up, and with a clashing of gears, began speeding away.

Doc quickly grabbed another gun, resembling a flare pistol, with a barrel roughly the diameter of a 20 gauge shotgun. It thudded loudly as he pulled the trigger, once, twice. Twin puffs of smoke on the roof of the limousine told where Doc hit it.

"Haven't seen that one before, Doc, something new?" asked Ham, as casually as if he had just seen Doc winding a new wristwatch.

"We may need to locate that vehicle again later," remarked Doc, cryptically.

Monk had grabbed for the radio microphone under the dashboard. All Doc Savage's vehicles also sported two-way radios capable of communication on any wavelength necessary. "Doc, you want me to give the cops a tip on those scoundrels? Maybe they can pick 'em up for us and you can get your hands on them later."

"No use. They are undoubtedly diplomats accredited to the Preussen Consulate."

"So what? They can't get away with ridin' around blowin' off typewriters like they was cheap mobsters, not without getting treated like they was."

"Unfortunately, they can."

"The devil you say!"

Ham interjected. "Haven't you ever heard of diplomatic immunity, you feeble excuse for a Neanderthal? They are untouchable by the legal system."

Monk snorted. "Sounds just like the mealy-mouthed scheme some mealy-mouthed shyster would put together. When didja come up with it?"

Ham snarled, and began drawing his sword cane from its sheath. "I'm about to cut your thumbs off, if you've evolved any yet, you prehensile –"

Doc interrupted the interminable quarrel. "Look at this." He handed Monk one of their assailants' weapons, dropped in the street. Monk looked and whistled.

"That's not any old Tommy gun, Doc."

"It is one of the latest and deadliest designs in the world today. It is the same weapon carried by the Preussen Army's elite shock troops, the Gray Guard, in the field," confirmed Doc.

Ham observed, "And no-one else in the world has them. We seem to have attracted the attention of some very high powers."

Monk grinned. "We usually do."

Doc Savage looked at the sedan, and gripped a spot under the rear bumper. With no more apparent effort than a woman maneuvering a baby carriage, Doc lifted the vehicle and pushed it back out onto the road. He then resumed his seat and said, "We still have business at the Polish Consulate."

Monk reversed the car, grinning and waving unconcernedly at the group of citizens who had gathered in small knots on the sidewalks. Even in New York City, a machine-gun battle in the street is still unusual enough to draw a crowd of onlookers.

As Monk drove, Doc opened a small portable medical kit. Removing his shoes and rolling up his trousers, Doc applied antiseptics and bandaging to his wounds. Almost carelessly, he took a surgical needle and silk thread, and took two stitches in one gash. Ham, sitting next to him, winced.

"The needle is coated with an instantaneous anesthetic which almost completely inhibits pain. I developed this recently with the primary thought of injured children who are frightened of the pain normally involved in this procedure. Too, if the doctor's office becomes a place of healing rather than a place of more hurting in a child's mind, he will be more likely to frequent it more regularly as an adult, thus maintaining better health throughout his life."

Ham stared at Doc in amazement. That he should devote so much time to so simple a thing, but which could conceivably have such profound implications for thousands he would never know!

"This," continued Doc clinically, "was the first actual field test of the treated needle. I am pleased to report that there was no pain at all."

"Just coincidence it was you that got it first, Doc?" queried Monk.

"Correct. I shall be able to begin distribution almost immediately." Ham and Monk both knew that Doc would probably manufacture the painless needles at a factory owned by him, and make them available at little or no cost to medical professionals all over the world. Although the world best knew Doc Savage as a "trouble-buster", his philanthropic achievements were no less spectacular, although far less publicized.

The sedan pulled up at the Polish Consulate without further incident. Doc directed Monk to stand by at the wheel in case any further trouble requiring a hasty departure developed.

Chapter III – Trouble in Warsaw

Doc Savage and Ham opened the front door of the consulate and entered. A man in a military uniform eyed them warily, but a middle-aged woman at the front desk smiled warmly and greeted them.

"Good afternoon," said Doc in Polish, that being one of the many languages in which he was fluent. "I regret to inform you of the death of one of your staff in the lobby of the building in which I maintain my offices," he continued in English, for Ham's benefit. "My name is Clark Savage, Jr."

The woman's eyed widened. "Blessed Heaven," she murmured. "I thought I recognized you. Yes, the police informed us of the murder of our man a short while ago. Do you have any more information you can give us on this tragedy?"

Doc's features were impassive as he replied, "I'm afraid I have nothing more to share at this time than what you already know."

Ham too maintained his best poker face. Strictly speaking, Doc had told no lie.

"Your man was carrying this on his person when he was shot. Can you tell me anything more about this telegram?"

She opened the sheet, and noticed the heading sequence, indicating the official channels through which it had come. Her eyebrows raised in surprise. "Let me call someone for you right away, Professor Savage."

She lifted a telephone receiver: Ham and Doc both observed the red button she pressed. Evidently she was summoning a high-ranking official of the staff. The woman whispered a few words in her native language into the instrument, listened intently, and hung up. "Please, Professor Savage, come this way. Ladislava Vzynyk will see you immediately." She rose, and escorted them into a private conference room in the interior of the building.

Doc's keen eyes scanned the room quickly and thoroughly. He observed at least six spots where hidden microphones might be planted, and assumed that at least one existed. He hummed a short phrase of melody, which broke into what seemed to be nonsense lyrics. In truth, he was speaking to Ham in the language of the ancient Mayans. Doc and all his aides were fluent in this tongue, owing to their association with a lost tribe of pure-blooded Mayans still living hidden in the mountains of Central America. What he said was simply this: "Assume we are being listened to and probably watched as well. Exercise caution."

Ham indicated his understanding–he slowly nodded his head back and forth in time to the tune Doc still hummed.

The room was intensely quiet for another minute. The sound of the door opening sounded like a gunshot. An attractive young lady, probably in her early thirties, wheeled in an expensive-looking trolley laden with a steaming teapot, teacups, and an assortment of pastries.

Ham eyed the young lady appreciatively. "Wonder if she speaks English?" he commented. "Even if she doesn't, she'll do until this Ladislava Vzynyk gets around to us."

The lady began pouring tea, three cups. She spoke to Ham, in perfect English, with just a trace of accent. "I do hope I'll suffice, Mr. Brooks. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ladislava Vzynyk, Second Agricultural Liaison." She flashed a smile that made Ham's heart flutter.

Ham started grinning. "Wait until Monk finds out what he's missed!" His smile dropped suddenly. "Second Agricultural Liaison? What business do you think we're here on?" His voice lifted into his best courtroom manner. "Do you not understand that we have come to report on the murder of one of your colleagues here at this consulate? And to determine the origin of this communication which appears to have come by way of some very high diplomatic channels, through this very same consulate? And we are sent a Second Agricultural Liaison to handle these very serious matters?"

Through Ham's cross-examination, Doc sat stoically, watching the woman. Above all, he observed that although she had done little more than pour tea, her eyes had never stopped moving, and she had done as complete a job observing Doc and Ham as Doc had of her.

She closed the door, took a cup of tea, and sat down. She turned to Doc. "Dr. Clark Savage, Jr. Do I call you Dr. Savage?"

"Mr. Savage will be adequate. Although you may call me 'Doc' if you wish to be less formal."

"Mr. Savage – for now." She sat forward in her chair. Platinum blond hair rustled around her face like a satin veil, framing eyes of ice-blue. "Second Agricultural Liaison is my official title at this consulate. My only title, for that matter. However, in my spare time, I work on – other matters of some importance."

Doc stated drily: "I believe you are telling us you are an intelligence agent."

"I usually don't allow such things to be spoken so boldly, Mr. Savage." But a crooked smile turned up one corner of her mouth. "However, I will say that you have – uh– 'hit the hammer on the head'."

"I think you mean 'the nail'," interjected Ham. "The correct idiom is 'hit the nail on the head'."

She laughed, and it was like the tinkling of wind chimes. "Of course. I sometimes confuse my – what did you call it? Idioms."

"Before we proceed, Miss Vzynyk –" started Doc.

"Please, call me Laddie," said Ladislava Vzynyk.

Doc continued. "Would you please turn off any of the surveillance devices monitoring our conversation, Laddie?"

"You are indeed as perceptive as I have heard, Mr. Savage." She stood and reached behind a portrait hanging on the wall. "It is off."

"All of them, if you please."

"Maybe even more so," she responded with a smile. Reaching under a lamp shade, she turned the light off, then on again. "That's all, I promise. I do apologize for my habits."

"What more can you tell us about this?" Doc queried, handing her the telegram.

"Nothing more than what you have probably guessed already. It is from your colleagues, Col. Renwick and Major Thomas. They have been working on a top-secret military program for my government in Warsaw, at the Royal Technological Institute. This was sent from Government House in Warsaw, encrypted, by standard wire. It was deciphered here, and Jacyk Dobrynski, my courier, was murdered taking it to you."

"Do you have any idea who might have killed him, and why? There is nothing in this worth doing murder for."

"Who? I have my suspicions. There are two or three other European nations that would not like to see Poland develop an efficient and modern army. While our enemies build tanks and bombers, Poland's army still rides horses. Your men are doing my country a valuable service.

"Mr. Savage, I believe you have more than a suspicion yourself about who murdered Jacyk. But why? You are probably correct in saying the contents of this telegram do not warrant such an extreme measure to prevent it reaching you. The murderer probably thought he was carrying this one."

Doc's usually unexpressive face registered the slightest hint of surprise as Laddie drew another sheet of paper from under the tea tray. Ham was frankly startled at her statement.

"This was received one and a half hours after the other. This was transmitted directly here, also encrypted, but on a secret military radio frequency, directly from the location where your men were working."

Ham's jaw dropped slightly as he realized she had just employed the past tense: "were working."

Doc took the paper from her. It read: "Message for Doc Savage. Trouble brewing. Enemy agents attempting to disrupt project. Believe to be Preussen operatives. Expecting sabotage or–" The message broke off abruptly.

"Unfortunately," stated Laddie, "they appear to have been interrupted in the act of transmission. I have had no news from the Institute, and I fear the worst."

Doc's face remained impassive, but Ham could see his eyes – like pools of gold flake they were, stirred by unseen wind. The pools seemed to whirl with sudden determination.

The snappily-dressed attorney knew what that look meant. "I've always wanted to visit Poland," Ham stated.

Chapter IV – Inside the New Empire

Several blocks west, a few more downtown. The sun was setting over New York City, shadows fell quickly in the canyons of steel and concrete. At the Preussen Consulate, a guard lowered the Preussen flag – a field of blood-red, with two jagged lightning bolts crossed in the center, bolts of white with thin black outlines.

Inside the consulate could be found a smiling, strawberry-blonde young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She sat at the reception desk all day, greeting visitors with a warm, friendly smile, amidst large posters and paintings decorating the walls – pictures of Preussen, land of the amicable New Empire. Bands of Preussen citizens were portrayed happily traipsing through meadows, visiting the seaside, climbing mountains. One large photograph showed thronging masses of Preusseners, jubilantly waving banners, banners marked with the Jagged Cross, the crossed lightning bolts. These masses were attending a speech or rally hosted by the Premier of the New Empire. The Premier stood at the balcony of an imposing Gothic structure, somewhere in Preussen. His hand was raised in salute to his loyal people. A brilliant smile streaked his face.

Only one other picture of His Excellency the Premier was to be found in the reception area of the consulate. This was a formal painting, portraying His Excellency in the brave uniform of a field marshal of a previous era. No-one might have guessed that His Excellency had risen no higher than the rank of corporal the year he actually served in Preussen's military, in the Great War. Very few ever mentioned that fact.

The artist had been superb – the Premier radiated a warm, almost fatherly, glow. He might have been a character from light opera. From the painting, no-one might have guessed that His Excellency was a ruthless dictator. No-one ever mentioned that fact.

The young woman at the desk made a few last tidying-up gestures around her desk. Her day was over, and she planned to walk straight home to her apartment in a building which was owned by the Preussen government. Most of the Consulate's staff lived there.

As she opened the door to leave, she turned, and with a bright smile on her face, she raised her arm in salute to the portrait of His Excellency. It had been a good day.

In a basement room, there were gathered some men who were also on the staff of the Consulate. They knew they were having a very bad day indeed.

The basement room in question had an atmosphere substantially different from the cheery upstairs. Banners of the Jagged Cross covered one wall completely, and another portrait of the Premier hung before the banners. He wore a different uniform in this portrait, black with silver trimmings on the collar, an armband with the lightning bolts on his sleeve. His eyes were cold, and one hand rested on the grip of a holstered pistol. There was nothing friendly about this portrait.

Overhead, stark lights shone down on four men seated at a long and plain wooden table. These were the men who knew they were having a bad day, and they suspected the day could still get very much worse for them.

Behind them, two guards flanked the door by which they had entered. They wore dark gray uniforms similar to the one worn by the Premier – the one in the basement portrait, of course. They carried machine guns, of the type used to assault Doc Savage's automobile earlier that day. Although accredited to the Consulate as simple security staff, they were in fact members of the Preussen Army's elite Gray Guard.

The four worried men faced three others, who were seated around an impressive mahogany desk. These three had entered from a different door, and these did not look worried at all. Although they did not wear military uniforms, they seemed to, by their bearing.

One of the unworried men looked at a paper in his hand, and spoke. "Lindenplatz will be disappointed to read your report, Lieutenant." Lindenplatz was the ancient capital of Preussen. Invoking its name was the same as speaking the name of the Premier, and the tone of the speaker's voice indicated that Lindenplatz would be very, very, displeased, rather than merely disappointed.

"Understood, sir." The man at one end of the plain wooden table struck a match. His hand shook visibly as he lit a cigarette.

"This is – disgraceful!" shouted the man at the head table, slamming a hand on the desk for emphasis, and the four men at the table flinched. "This should have been a very simple assassination, and it was completely bungled! I thought I was sending Preussen's best to remove one worthless American –this Doc Savage– I sent four idiots!" As he shouted the word "idiots", the four flinched again.

"I have read your report, Lieutenant, and I am disgusted. You not only failed to erase an enemy of the New Empire, you risked exposing the shadow operations of our Consulate. We cannot afford an international incident at this time!"

"I– I regret my failure, sir. As officer in charge of the operation, I accept all responsibility."

"Your two gunners also failed miserably, Lieutenant."

The second man at the table sat with his face in his hands. He may have been sobbing. He knew the cost of failure. He was the gunner who had dropped his weapon.

"Only your driver seems to have known what he was doing today."

The last man at the table – the driver – looked alert. He now dared to light a cigarette, but his hands still shook.

"On your feet!" shouted the man with the report. "All evidence has been reviewed. This court-martial is now concluded. Verdicts are as follows: Lieutenant Skoren, for gross dereliction of duty, execution. Also, you are immediately stripped of all rank. Sergeant Veemer." It was he who had lost his machine gun. "For allowing capture of vital military equipment by the enemy, execution. Also, you are immediately stripped of all rank. Sergeant Meinen, you shall serve ten years of corrective instruction at a re-education camp in Preussen. Also, you are immediately demoted to private." Private Meinen hardly looked relieved. He knew ten years at a re-education camp was really just a very slow execution. "Corporal Tenzen." This was the driver. "You are exonerated. You performed your duties to the best of your ability, while under enemy fire, with courage befitting a Preussen soldier. You are awarded the Meritorious Service Ribbon, Third Class, and are hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. You are now officer in charge of Special Service Staff."

Lieutenant Tenzen's head snapped up. "Thank you sir!"

"Step forward, Lieutenant."

The unfortunate former Lieutenant Skoren started to move, then held his feet as Tenzen stepped forward. One of the other three men spoke for the first time. "Here is the badge of your new office," he said flatly, and tossed a vicious-looking semi-automatic pistol to Lt. Tenzen. "And here is your first order. Carry out the executions decreed by this tribunal. Immediately."

Lt. Tenzen's jaw dropped slightly, then tightened in iron resolve. "Yes sir!" He dropped the magazine from the pistol, verified that it carried the regulation nine cartridges. Slamming it back home, he worked the slide with easy familiarity and chambered the first round. He hesitated. "Should I have them face the wall, sir, or shall I shoot them where they stand?"

At his words, Skoren's composure broke – a sob burst from his throat, and tears rolled down to the table.

"You are the officer in charge, Tenzen, you may proceed as you wish." This was again the man who had directed the very brief proceedings and pronounced sentences. He was a dangerously high-ranking member of the Preussen intelligence service, and was known only by his code-name: Mongoose. A half-smirk curled his lip as he spoke.

Tenzen eyed his former commanding officer speculatively. Skoren's shoulders were heaving. "Skoren!" Tenzen shouted, and backhanded Skoren across the face with his gun hand, snapping him upright. The barrel dragged a furrow in Skoren's cheek and blood dripped on to the table. "At least try to die like a soldier!" With that, Tenzen jammed the barrel of the pistol behind Skoren's ear and pulled the trigger.

The shot was deafening in the concrete basement room. Skoren's body heaved convulsively one last time, and thudded heavily on the table. Blood fountained from his forehead, and the spent bullet caromed off the wall, spraying up concrete before lodging in the ceiling.

Tenzen strutted around behind Veemer. Veemer's eyes were closed, and his lips were moving. He had just discovered prayer. Tenzen whipped the barrel of the gun to the back of Veemer's head, squeezing off death wordlessly. Blood, bone chips, and brain matter sprayed, raining down on the Jagged Cross flags, and on the portrait of the Premier.

"Executions completed, sirs!" shouted Lieutenant Tenzen, giving a proper military salute to his superiors. He turned toward the bloody portrait, and stretched his arm. "Hail the Premier!"

"Excellent, Lieutenant. You are now responsible for discovering the solution to the Doc Savage question. Dismissed. Guards! Confine Private Meinen in Cell One, then clear the bodies."

Then there were only three living men in the basement room. "I think the Lieutenant has a promising future," said the Mongoose.

Chapter Five – The Eighty-Sixth Floor and Beyond

Monk stared out the window of Doc Savage's office window. New York's midsummer weather was gray and drizzling. Chill winds whipped through the streets. The weather precisely fitted Monk's mood. He was rather unhappy.

As Ham sat down in a leather chair with a smug look on his face, Monk snarled. "You're a double-crossin' excuse for a pal! You're the lowest of the low! I don't know why I let you keep gettin' away with these sneakin' stunts – you snake-oil peddler! You oughta be disbarred and put behind bars instead!"

Ham jerked his sword cane fully from its sheath and shook it at his antagonist. "You had better learn to keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll put so many slices in it that when you yawn people will think you've got an octopus caught in your throat!"

"You come near me with that thing and I'll wrap it 'round your throat like a necktie!"

The two glowered at each other. The cause of all this upset was quite simple. Monk had learned that while he was sitting in the automobile outside the Polish Consulate, Ham had been in the company of a charming young lady. Knowing this was just the sort of thing to tweak Monk's ire, Ham had deliberately exaggerated his part of the conversation. In fact, he gave the impression that he and Miss Vzynyk were just a little short of being engaged. He had been carrying on since the day before, when they had visited the consulate. Earlier this day, he had even arranged that a bouquet of roses be delivered to him at Doc's office, with a card reading simply, "To My Dearest Theodore". Monk had promptly trampled the roses underfoot, and offered them to his unusual pet pig, Habeas Corpus, for a snack.

To anyone who did not know them, Ham and Monk seemed perpetually on the brink of doing mortal violence to one another. In fact, they were the closest of friends. Each had happily risked his own life for the other on numerous occasions, and would continue doing so. Still, it was very few people who had ever observed them exchange civil words.

Monk stomped up and down the length of the office again. Finally, he slammed his fist down on an intricately inlaid table. "Dang it all Ham, where's Doc got to anyway?"

"Can't you remember anything even from this morning, you mishap of nature? Doc told us to wait here for him while he investigated the Preussen Consulate. That's where he is. That's why we're here. Do you need to know the day and date as well? I have a newspaper here with that information if you want to carry it with you. Just remember you'll need a fresh one tomorrow."

"I'll bet you stole it off the blind newsboy at the corner again, you swindlin' cheapskate."

Ham stole a glance at his watch. The two had had dinner sent up two hours previously. They had been waiting for Doc since breakfast. He was growing as concerned as Monk over Doc's whereabouts, but was determined not to let it show. "Look, you clumsy baboon, the last thing Doc needs right now is you barging in on him and blowing whatever routine he has going." But his fingers tapped nervously against the gold head of his sword cane.

Just as it seemed the two were about to start spitting venom at each other again, the large bronze door opened and Doc Savage walked in. Even after years of close association, Monk and Ham were still struck by his appearance. Despite Doc's size, the symmetry of his muscular development was such that it was difficult to realize his true stature until he was close. But his eyes were probably the bronze man's most unusual feature. They were like pools of flake gold, never inactive, always stirring, and possessing a compelling power that was distinctly hypnotic.

Doc told the two briefly of his visit to the Preussen Consulate: he reported the assassination of Jacyk Dobrynski, and that police might suspect a Preussen national to be behind it. That in itself was true. He failed to mention that he had observed the vehicle with the Consulate's license plates speeding from the scene of the murder, and he made no allusion to the attempt that had been made on his own life.

Doc took a cab when he left the consulate, and stayed with the hack just long enough to be sure he was being followed. He then managed to switch cabs, and followed the car which had followed him. It was the one driven the day before, which had assaulted him, Monk, and Ham.

"I suspected," Doc concluded, "that clandestine operations of this nature might be headquartered away from the Consulate itself, so that officials could establish plausible deniability about any illegal activity. I followed their automobile long enough to determine that it was leaving the city. I then watched and waited for it to return. It was then a simple matter to slip over the wall and take a sample of soil from its tires. That sample," he said, holding up a small metal case, "will tell us exactly where that vehicle traveled in the meantime."

"But Doc!" protested Monk. "Don't let's forget about Renny and Long Tom! Shouldn't we be heading to Poland, or Preussen, by now? Who cares where the dang car went to?"

"What is important," said Doc, "is that it has left again. We will find it, and the headquarters of the Preussen secret services. That may give us a better clue as to where and how to begin our rescue operation."

Doc retreated into his laboratory, and subjected the soil sample to some of the most sophisticated chemical analysis that science offered. High temperatures caused the different particles of soil to glow in distinctive shades that were subject to spectrographic identification. Clays, minerals, sands, and organic material gave the soil a fingerprint that was as specific to a region as a town name – or even a neighborhood.

When he had finished the analysis, Doc studied a chart showing soil profiles of the Connecticut coast. He considered the length of time the car had been away – it would have been able to drive out, stay two hours, then drive back to the city.

"Ham, Monk, take the delivery truck. Drive east, toward Connecticut. I will follow along in the gyro and radio further directions en route."

With no more discussion, Doc's two men ran to the speed elevator and plunged to the underground garage. There they took one of Doc's machines that was disguised as a shabby-looking bakery delivery van. But inside it was fitted with nearly all the armoring and defensive mechanisms of the big sedan.

Monk ran to the passenger-side door. "You drive this time. And don't take off after no ambulances," he spat.

Meanwhile, Doc had opened the door to a hidden space in his laboratory. Here he entered a specially built capsule, essentially a private subway, which shuttled him underground to an inconspicuous warehouse on the waterfront. The warehouse was shabby brick on the outside, corners crumbling, bits of the cheap steel roof flapping in the breeze. A weathered sign by the door read "Hidalgo Trading Company".

The warehouse was as much a fortress as were Doc's offices. In truth, it was a hangar for some of the most sophisticated vehicles in the world. There were seaplanes of different size, numerous boats, including a submarine, and a marvel of Doc's own design and construction, a true gyro, which could take off and land vertically. One did not hundreds of feet of runway for this craft, anywhere the gyro could fit was all it needed.

Pausing only to load a large metal box with antennas protruding and covered in dials, Doc opened the hangar doors, let the gyro lift off a foot from the ground, and swooped out into the evening sky. Behind him, the doors closed automatically.

Watching the patterns of traffic flow beneath, and the stars, Doc flew east-northeast up the coastline, and began studying the dials of the instrument he had loaded in. "Ham, Monk. Best speed into Connecticut."

"You got it Doc!" Monk's voice crackled back over the radio.

"You should have me in sight. I will flash my lights for identification."

"Gotcha!"

In the delivery van, the two rolled in to the seaside town of Stamford, along the old Boston Post Road. Here, Stamford was a respectable size city.

"You should be coming up on a large intersection. Turn north."

"Right, Doc."

As the van headed north, buildings thinned out quickly, and Stamford was soon farm country. New York City might have been a thousand miles away, rather than a short drive.

"Turn right at the next road."

Doc guided them from the air, along miles of dark, winding country road. Finally he told them: "There is a large field ahead on your left. Pull off into it, and I'll bring my ship down there as well."

The van pulled into the field and stopped amidst some tall old shrubbery, protected from at least casual inspection at night. The gyro settled a few hundred feet away near the edge of a wood with hardly a sound. It was likely the van itself had made more noise.

"So where are we, Doc?" asked Monk.

"Near Preussen's secret field headquarters."

Even Ham seemed puzzled. "How did you find it, Doc?"

"I haven't yet." Doc hesitated. Ordinarily he was reticent about some of his methods, even with his associates, but he explained. "You recall that I shot at the Preussen's auto with what looked like a Very pistol. That was actually a charge of radioactive material which marked the vehicle in a way that cannot be washed off. I have been tracking that vehicle from the air with an extremely sensitive device, and it appears to be stationary about a mile down this road. I believe that it is there we will find their lair. Is the van concealed?"

"You bet, Doc," stated Monk.

"Follow me, then." The bronze man moved so swiftly and silently that his men hardly realized he was gone, and hurried to catch up.

By the moonlight the three men could see the house a hundred yards away now. It was a well-built newer dwelling, made of heavy wooden beams and flagstones in the style of a country farmhouse.

"Stop," Doc Savage's whispered. From a pack at his belt he extracted what might have been a pair of aviator's goggles, except for the lenses: these were long black cylinders. "The property is alarmed. Move single file."

As the three came within twenty yards of the house, Doc stopped them again. He picked up a small stone from the ground, and threw it with precision, so that it skipped through a cluster of tall rhododendron bushes about fifty feet to the left of the building. Here, they could see a long black limousine which looked uncomfortably familiar.

"Betcha that car's got diplomatic plates we've seen before," whispered Monk to Ham.

"Just figure that out, imbecile?" hissed Ham's voice.

Doc shushed them again before the perpetual quarrel could break out again. He skipped another stone, slightly larger, into more bushes on the other side of the house. Lights were on behind curtained windows. An occasional man-shaped shadow could be seen passing the windows. The movements were unhurried.

Doc spoke softly. "I don't believe they have any sound-detecting apparatus monitoring the outside. Those two rocks should have aroused some investigation if they did. Look at this, though." Doc passed his unusual goggles to Ham.

"Ouch!" said Ham, after a few moments.

"Gimme those things, shyster." Monk took a turn looking through the goggles. "Zowie. What is it?"

"Ultraviolet beams," replied Doc. "Similar to devices used by ourselves. These goggles reduce the beams to a wavelength visible by human eyes."

Monk looked again. The house seemed surrounded by glowing purple spiderwebs – the network of ultraviolet rays.

"We need to find one of the receptor eyes," Doc stated. He took the goggles back. "Right there. Stay close behind." He moved toward the house, eyes watching the invisible rays which would betray their presence. "Here," he whispered. Doc Savage pulled what looked like a small square flashlight from his many-pocketed vest. In the dim light, they all could see a small round lens fixed to the trunk of a tree, about two feet off the ground. Doc trained the lens of his own gadget at the lens. Ham and Monk understood. If any animal or human broke the invisible ultraviolet beam, it would set off an alarm in the house. What looked like an odd flashlight really was just that – an ultraviolet flashlight! Doc Savage and his men used these devices frequently to write messages for each other using a special chalk that was invisible, except under ultraviolet light. Now, Doc was using the same device to keep a constant beam of the "black light" on the lens. They could walk through the invisible trap safely, and did so. In fact, Doc Savage used a similar alarm system throughout his offices and other facilities.

When through the invisible beams, the three sidled up to the house, just under the most brightly lit window. Doc Savage removed a compact listening device from his vest pocket. It resembled a long wire with a smallish box in the middle. One end of the wire he fitted into his ear, the other he affixed to the window glass with a small rubber suction cup. Although he could not see the speakers, Doc could hear them as easily as if he was in the room. Leaning close to Doc's ear, Ham and Monk could just overhear the conversation coming through the earpiece: Ham understood most of the language, Monk picked up the gist of it. Doc Savage was fluent, as he was in nearly every known language.

Although they did not know it, the three were listening to the newly-promoted Lieutenant Tenzen and the one called the Mongoose.

"So, Lieutenant, have you formulated a strategy for dealing with this Savage person and his cohorts?"

"I have, sir. He is a tremendously resourceful adversary, and the ineptly crude tactics of my predecessor were very foolish and doomed to failure. Therefore I have instituted a comprehensive campaign of covert surveillance on his movements and habits. In the decadent city of New York, there are many criminal elements who are glad for the chance to help participate in his eradication. At least two dozen have already been paid a –retainer fee, let us call it– and will be documenting his behavior. Three American citizens of Preussen descent are handling these. These three are well known by us to be enthusiastic supporters of the Premier and the New Empire, and are utterly reliable.

"Savage's activity will be analyzed scientifically for weaknesses when it is thoroughly understood. At that time –I am allowing at least one week, no more than two– I shall formulate a precise strategy to remove him, relatively quietly. I am thinking already in terms of poison gas or virulent disease. I have already surmised that, as he is a very strong leader among his cohorts, with him gone, his associates will pose a minimal threat at best. At worst, we would be able to deal with them using more straightforward tactics."

Outside, Monk was all but holding a hand over his mouth as strangled gargles of rage threatened to erupt from his throat. His hands clenched and unclenched listening to the coldly calculated plot.

Ham's face was grim, and his eyes blazed in fury.

Only Doc remained apparently unperturbed, listening to the scheme to murder him. He held up one hand to his men, enjoining their continued silence.

"Have you considered, as well, Lieutenant," continued the Mongoose, "that this Savage fellow –who you describe as so resourceful– may attempt to turn the tables on you, and kill you first? Or attempt to discover this safe house?"

"Of course, sir. In addition to the regular trap alarms, I have also ordered a four man team to be stationed here with full Gray Guard ordnance. They could hold off anything less than a platoon, or a tank. Two tanks, actually, sir, they could handle a single one."

"Excellent, Lieutenant. Where are they? I did not see them coming in."

"Of course not, sir. They are on the second floor, for better observation."

"Of course. Lieutenant, do you know why Savage is of such concern to Lindenplatz?"

"I know only that he is an American, and as such an enemy of the New Empire."

"Hmm. A commendable attitude, Lieutenant. However, I wish you to understand the importance of this, and why Lindenplatz is so very interested in your success." There was a steely edge in the Mongoose's voice. "Two of Savage's associates, Colonel John Renwick and Major Thomas Roberts have been engaged in military activity on behalf of our ancient enemy, Poland. They are aiding Poland in constructing devastating weapons of war which are intended for the eventual invasion, occupation, and destruction of our sacred Fatherland. They are guilty already of plotting the murder of millions of innocent, peace-loving, Preussen people, including the Premier undoubtedly, and the subjugation of our Fatherland into a Polish colony."

"The monsters." Lieutenant Tenzen's voice was even and hard.

"That's the biggest slab of fat-filled baloney I ever heard, and that includes everything I ever heard outta this shyster," whispered Monk outside.

"That's such a pack of lies even you weren't fooled, you dimwit," Ham retorted.

Doc shushed them again. The conversation inside continued.

"Even as I speak," continued the Mongoose, "Roberts and Renwick have been liberated from Polish territory by the Gray Guard." The Gray Guard, Doc Savage knew, included Preussen's feared commando detachment and shock troops. Their duties, among other things, included serving as personal bodyguard to the Premier and the other highest-ranking officials of the New Empire. "They are being held at a secret location, a very special re-education facility, where we hope to convince them of the error of their ways, and turn over to the Premier the secret of the monstrous weapons they are constructing. In this way, Preussen may then turn the tables on Poland and the other decadent countries of Europe who envy us our New Empire and would gladly see us in ruins. We do not wish for war, but we would be more than justified in engaging in limited, defensive, and pre-emptive engagements."

Ham and Monk looked at each other in horror, and even Doc Savage's face was grim. Thoroughly understanding the language of lies, they were listening to a plot to plunge Europe, if not the world, into war! And to torture their two friends into helping them!

"Let me get in there and take 'em apart, Doc," growled Monk. His eyes burned, and his voice had a tone that would have made a lion think twice about pouncing.

Ham was agitatedly pulling and re-sheathing his sword cane. He said nothing, but he was obviously of the same mind.

"Come this way," whispered Doc. "Do exactly what I tell you next."

With Doc leading the way, the three crept back to the edge of the trees where the ultraviolet beams made their trap. Doc put a hand on each of friends' shoulders, and walked right through the beams! Shrill sirens immediately began wailing into the night!

Upper-story windows slammed open. Racing, booted footsteps could be heard pounding inside. The front door of the house burst open, and Lieutenant Tenzen swung a flashlight around the area. Moments before it rested on the three, Doc Savage's voice rang out, not too loudly, but so that it carried very clearly.

"Ham, Monk, split up! Meet me at the gyro!"

With that, Doc Savage disappeared into the night like a bronze ghost. Ham and Monk, stunned by his actions, started running a split-second later, as machine-gun fire swept the area. Lead kicked up divots of grass and shredded the bark off of trees. Obeying the bronze man's last instruction, Ham and Monk high-tailed it into the night, one running left, one running right, making for the cover of the abundant woods around them.

Lieutenant Tenzen watched them disappear into the darkness, and a crooked smile split his face. "Sergeant!" He called for the leader of his commandos, gave brisk instructions.

"At once, Lieutenant!" responded the sergeant.

Moments later, two motorcycles with sidecars –the four commandos– were rumbling their engines across the field. The sergeant raised a hand. "Halt!" he cried over the noise. "Turn the motors off!"

Not far off was the sound of a high-powered aircraft engine warming up. At the edge of the field, Doc Savage's gyro was making a vertical liftoff. In the moonlight, three silhouettes showed clearly in the cockpit windows.

"Hess! Make ready to fire!"

One of the other troopers lifted a long tube to his shoulder; another dropped a long projectile down the snout of it.

"Take aim and fire!" shouted the sergeant. Maybe a second later, Hess pulled a trigger. With a gut-wrenching roar, a miniature rocket burst out the tube and streaked right for the gyro!

The explosion lit up the sky. The gyro dissolved in a cloud of smoke, flame, and multitudinous debris of which not one piece was larger than a pencil. The four commandos hit the ground as bits of flaming wreckage spun around them. Even they were astonished at the violence of the blast.

"Well done, Hess, you must have hit the fuel tank," observed the sergeant with a grin. "The Lieutenant will be pleased."

The Lieutenant was more than pleased. He was ecstatic. However, he maintained smart military bearing as he reported back to the Mongoose. "Sir, I hereby submit my final report on the Doc Savage question. He is dead, along with the two he called 'Ham' and 'Monk', presumably two of his five associates. The surveillance campaign I previously described to you is therefore redundant. I shall modify its operation immediately to locate the fifth known associate."

The Mongoose lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He held the cigarette in the odd, upside-down looking European manner. "Very well done, Lieutenant. Very well done. You have just earned the Cross of Honor, First Class. Hail the Premier!"

Lieutenant Tenzen snapped further to attention and extended his arm. "Hail the Premier!"

Chapter VI – Presumed Dead

New York's lights shine brightly even at the latest hours of the night. From the eighty-sixth floor of one of the city's best-known skyscrapers, the view is a spectacular sea of illumination. Not particularly appreciating the view were three men in an office on that eighty-sixth floor.

"A shame you had to sacrifice that gyro, Doc," said the very-well attired Theodore Marley Brooks.

"Better the gyro than ourselves," responded the bronze figure nearby.

"Wish you coulda told us first, Doc," stated Andrew Blodgett Mayfair.

Doc Savage made no reply. His strategy leaving the secret headquarters of the Preussen secret agents had been quickly decided. Even with his own men, Doc believed that a decoy maneuver such as he had utilized was far more effective if those executing it believed in their actions as much as possible. By directing Ham and Monk to make for the gyro, there was little chance they would betray the presence of the hidden van. Of course, he had intended for the Preusseners to hear his instructions.

His deception then had been relatively simple. The three had jumped into the craft, then slipped out the opposite door, unseen. The three silhouettes which had deceived their attackers were nothing more than a fabric cutout which Doc kept in the machine for such an occasion. He then opened the throttles wide, set the automatic pilot, and made for the van, in which they had just now returned.

"It serves us well for our opponents to believe we are dead," observed Doc. "It gives us a much freer hand for a time." This was a lesson that all Doc's men had learned, many times over. Criminals learned it – once! Doc Savage allowed many of his foes to believe they had indeed killed him, only to find him very much alive at the end of their criminal careers – or their lives.

"So what are we going to do about Renny and Long Tom, Doc?" asked Monk, worriedly. "Those vicious thugs are probably torturing them to death right now!"

"We head for Poland."

Monk whooped. "It'll be a pleasure takin' them Preusseners on! That government over there is nothing but a criminal mob that made it to the top."

Ham frowned. "Surely even you can't take on a whole country, Doc."

"No, not a whole country. But Monk is essentially correct, in that we need to rescue our brothers from men who are no different than the brutal criminals we are more used to dealing with. Ham, we will need passports under false identities. See to that in the morning. We shall stay here until we're ready to leave, to reduce the chance of being seen alive. Monk, you and I will see to _Helldiver_ tomorrow."

_Helldiver_ was Doc Savage's submarine. A unique craft, it had been designed to travel under the Arctic ice, and was sturdy enough to carry them across the Atlantic.

"Say, Doc, what about Johnny? Shouldn't we get him along?" asked Monk.

"Johnny" was William Harper Littlejohn, the fifth member of Doc's team, and was one of the world's leading experts in geology and archaeology.

"Unfortunately, Johnny is unavailable at this time. He is in Egypt, on an expedition with a Professor Henry Jones, Jr., of the University of Chicago. However, I do intend on bringing along another person with us."

"What mug is that?" Monk scowled.

"Ladislava Vzynyk."

"Hot dog!" Monk grinned.

Understanding Doc's methods, Ham inquired, "Do you think there's something about her that's not quite square?"

"You mean do I think she's a double-agent for Preussen?" Doc sat silent for a long moment. "I do not believe so. But either way, I think she will prove invaluable to us."

Ham and Monk were already eyeing each other evilly. Both already had designs on Laddie's affections, for no better reason than their rivalry in everything else. That Monk had never set eyes on her didn't matter. Just the fact that Ham had shut him out once already was enough to set himself up for a rematch.

"In any case," continued Doc, "she has already offered us her assistance. Additionally, she has drafted a statement to our government regretting the kidnapping of two American citizens from her country, and pledging all possible measures to resolve the situation."

"Sounds like a bunch of government lawyers settin' down to swap lies," Monk directed to Ham, but his heart wasn't in it – he was fretting about his friends.

"Beyond that," continued Doc, interrupting another eruption of hostilities, "she has a number of well-placed connections in the Polish government, and that government has been compromised by Preussen operatives. She will be extremely useful in getting us introduced into the highest levels of the government in short order, where we can more quickly root out the traitors."

One of Doc Savage's few weaknesses was his own modesty. In gauging Ladislava Vzynyk's usefulness, he seemed not to realize that his own name was probably as powerful a password as anything.

"Go to the warehouse and start preparing _Helldiver_ for a long voyage. Ham, make use of all your most trusted diplomatic contacts. We will need to fuel in Iceland and Britain, in absolute secrecy. I have not yet decided how or where to secure _Helldiver_. A regular dock ashore would be more convenient, but vulnerable. Underwater anchorage would be most secure, but that does not make for an easy escape. Monk, make sure _Helldiver_ is well stocked for a round trip, at least. That includes your chemistry supplies."

Ham looked suddenly troubled. "Chemistry . . ."

"Not this time," Doc stated. "Chemistry" was Ham's peculiar pet, a smallish ape or chimp –its precise species defied classification– which the dapper lawyer had adopted some years previously. It was a remarkably intelligent creature, well trained, and often accompanied its master both about town and in the far lands where Doc's adventures led. As an added bonus, in Ham's eyes at least, Chemistry bore an uncanny resemblance to Monk. On one occasion, Ham had fitted Chemistry with a miniature derby hat, mimicking the one Monk had affected for a short time. Some quick timing with the ape, and discreet camera work, rendered a photograph seeming to show apemen, father and son, in matching clothes, right to the hat. The photo's appearance in a national magazine, with the caption "Missing Links?" had been Ham's crowning triumph at the time.

Similarly, Monk kept a pet of equally eccentric pedigree. Dubbed "Habeas Corpus", this was an Arabian wild hog, spindly of leg and profuse of ears. The creature's very presence was an ongoing jibe at Ham, whose nickname originated with an incident in the Great War: although Monk denied any responsibility, it was incontrovertible that General Theodore Brooks ended up accused of pilfering several smoked hams from the French army and forever bearing the name of that food as his own.

The diminutive porker was a companion as constant to Monk as Chemistry was to Ham. And, reflecting the creatures' great intelligence, the two carried on a quarrel of their own which mimicked and rivaled that of their owners'.

With a glance, Doc let both men know that their pets would not be allowed on this expedition. They stared at the floor for a moment, already missing their companions.

"I'll call the Zoo, Ham," murmured Monk. "The Zoo" was what they called the shelter that harbored such exotic animals. No animal was too unusual to be kept as a pet in New York, and when the owner of an ape, hog, tiger, or peacock needed his animal kenneled, "The Zoo" obliged.

"Have them picked up by tonight," advised Doc. "And down to the hangar now. I'll be along presently."

Several hours later, Monk and Ham sat and rested on wooden crates inside the warehouse bearing the sign "Hidalgo Trading Company". They had loaded several tons of food, weapons, clothing, and assorted other equipment down the narrow hatch of the submarine. A phone call ensured that a car was on the way to pick up the men's pets. Now, they allowed themselves a short break. Monk was formulating some invective with which to criticize the quality and quantity of Ham's day's work.

Suddenly, a door rattled, and the two jumped to their feet, looking to the side entrance expectantly. None but their own could even approach the building without warning alarms sounding, therefore, Doc must be arriving. But as the door swung open, sunlight silhouetted a shrunken, bent figure, clothed in rags. The two moved quickly to the door, wondering who this intruder might be, and how he had entered the building without tripping several alarms, or indeed at all.

One thing their extraordinary lives had taught them was never to judge by appearance – this seemingly wizened ancient could possibly –even probably– be a dangerous foe in disguise.

"Excuse me sir–" began Ham, limbering up his sword cane. Suddenly a monstrous hand shot out from the figure's rags – a hand of golden-bronze skin and enormous size.

Monk's jaw dropped. "Doc?" he gasped.

A transformation close to miraculous then took place. The rags fell off, and before four astonished eyes, the twisted figure straightened, grew, and swelled like a balloon. A monstrous bronze hand swept off a wig of tangled white locks, revealing a head covered in tight-cropped bronze hair.

Ham and Monk stared at each other, and back at their leader. Doc Savage's abilities were near-miraculous, and many often ascribed to him the magical powers of superstition. In that moment, his two men were not sure that magic was an impossible explanation. How could this giant of bronze possibly have disguised himself as that venerable figure, perhaps a third of his true size? Even after many years, Doc still managed to astonish his closest associates with his talents. Only a quick shake of his limbs, and flex of his back, showed the physical restraint to which he had subjected himself in maintaining his disguise.

"I've been to the Polish Consulate acquiring passports," Doc stated. "Miss Vzynyk agreed to provide us with documentation to facilitate our entry into Poland." It was typical of his manner to make no mention of his seemingly impossible disguise. "She will be joining us later tonight. Is _Helldiver_ ready for sea?"

"You bet, Doc," replied Monk.

"Ham?"

"A boat resembling a fishing trawler will meet us off the coast of Iceland to refuel at sea. And we have clearance for entry to the Royal Navy base at Scapa Flow for provisions and repair as well as fueling."

Doc nodded, satisfied. "From Scapa Flow, we will make for Poland, and land there secretly, not too far from the Preussen border. I believe we will head to Warsaw first, but if necessary, we will be able to enter Preussen quickly, as well.

"We have an arduous voyage ahead. I suggest we make a final check of the boat, and turn in for a bit of rest before we depart. Miss Vzynyk will be here at ten. We will leave shortly thereafter."

The three dozed lightly in their quarters aboard the sub. Precisely at ten o'clock, Doc awoke and roused the two.

"Best get out and stretch your legs. This will be your last chance for some time." Without another word, he headed for the door of the warehouse and exited onto the street.

This part of the city was quiet, for New York. A few cars roared by, a taxi circled warily, then sped off. Less than ten years ago, in Prohibition days, this section had been a notorious territory run by bootleggers, and there was still a strong "gangster" element to be found, if one was not careful. One car pulled up to the curb two blocks down. The vehicle looked old, but the engine was quiet and close inspection would have shown no rust. Much as Doc's own fleet, it was meant to look very ordinary while being something more than that. The back door popped open, and a figure staggered out, screaming invective, presumably to another occupant. The voice was that of a woman, and she took several determined steps away from the car, turned, screamed some more. Angry male voices answered her, and two gunshots cracked through the night. The woman shrieked, turned, ran, stumbled and sprawled in the street, regained her feet, and ran an aimless zigzag which had the fortunate result of taking her to the side door of the Hidalgo Trading Company, where Doc Savage stood. He had observed the entire farce. As the figure swayed and staggered into the darkest shadows, Doc's monstrous arm swept around her waist and pulled. In one graceful movement, Doc pulled the figure through the door and inside the warehouse.

"Quite a performance," Doc stated mildly.

Ladislava Vzynyk brushed street-dirt from her dress, ran fingers through her hair. "A classic reverse-distraction. Make such a terrible upset, make for trouble, no-one who might be watching for you would think you act such outrageously. Especially in America, people see trouble like that, they run away. Best way to be invisible, stand in middle of street and yell head out."

" 'Off' ," corrected Doc, disregarding her other grammatical slips. " 'Yell your head off' is the expression." He found himself momentarily tongue-tied: Laddie seemed to have no inclination to remove herself from the crook of the bronze man's mighty arm, and in fact relaxed into the curve of his elbow like a kitten. An awkward moment hung in the air: Doc Savage's one ignorance was women. He yanked his arm back so quickly that the attractive spy almost stumbled. "Follow me to the sub," he muttered brusquely, and strode away. Disappointment flickered momentarily on Laddie's face, but professional hardness resumed almost instantly.

"You have my luggage I sent earlier, yes? This would be a most inconvenient if these are only clothes I have all the way across Atlantic Ocean."

Doc nodded once, lips tight. At that moment, two heads bobbed up from the conning tower of the submarine.

"Howlin' calamities!" whispered Monk. "She's really gonna be sailing with us!"

"Don't you worry about her, caveman. As far as she's concerned, I'm the cruise director and you're the cabin boy."

"All right brothers, get below. Monk, show Miss Vzynyk to her cabin. Ham, stand by the main controls, and I'll take her out from here."

Monk brought his hand up in a salute, but as he brought it down, he faced Ham and let his thumb rest briefly against his nose.

Laddie hand-over-handed herself down the ladder, and as Monk started to follow her down, Ham ran fingers thoughtfully through his hair. "You know, since Doc is captain of this pigboat, he can solemnize marriages on the high seas. I'll have to speak to him about that . . ." The dapper lawyer jerked back as a fist like a furry brick swung a fraction of an inch from his jaw. He smiled to himself, and followed his dearest friend down into the sub.

Although submarines are notorious for their cramped quarters, this one had been designed for a fairly large crew, so the current population had the luxury of private cabins. The captain's cabin, the largest of course, had been given to Laddie. Doc occupied the Chief Officer's cabin. Ham took what had been the cabin for both First and Second Officers, and Monk's had been built for a Third and Junior Third. Two of the extra cabins had been filled with supplies, leaving one empty spare. Doc reasoned that if all went well, they would be returning with at least the two other men of Doc's group, and thus would need plenty of room to spare: Renny was a giant of a man rivaling Doc in size, and would easily require a whole two-man cabin to himself.

Monk threw open the door to the captain's quarters and showed Laddie in. "Home sweet home! I know it's not much to look at, but I put up that picture over there for you, so it looks like you've got a room with a view!" On the bulkhead hung a painting of a typical American farm: red barn, long, low house with front porch, and an expansive field of wheat waving in the wind. One could all but hear a rooster crowing. This homely art was hung not in an ordinary frame, but in a window frame, providing the illusion of gazing at this idyllic scene from one's own kitchen.

Earlier that day, Ham had sneered at the piece. "Did it cost five cents or did you have to pay the whole dime? Let me give you a hint for next time – art doesn't come from the same store where you buy shoelaces and chewing tobacco." A brief but enthusiastic discussion on art ensued, which ended with Monk's picture hanging in Laddie's cabin, and Ham's silk suit jacket sopping up bilge oil in the engine room.

Regardless of the painting's artistic merit, Laddie stood admiring it. "You are so full of thought. But please, let me unpack my things and make this room homelike. We have a long voyage. Mmm . . . do I suppose you could make some coffee, please?"

Monk's face parted into a wide grin. It was a grin more appropriate to a jack-o-lantern, and had in fact frightened small children more than any carved pumpkin.

"Dang right, you suppose it! You suppose it, and I'll make it, and I'll bring it back here for you." Monk raced off to the small galley, hardly bigger than a telephone booth, and set a pot of coffee to percolate on the electric burner.

Meanwhile, Doc Savage stood in the conning tower, and worked a small radio unit. Ahead of him, a metal door pulled up and tucked itself neatly into the warehouse ceiling. He worked the control again. Steel posts at the bow and stern of the boat twisted, jumped, and withdrew into the deck. This dropped the chain-hooks which held the pigboat to the dock, and the boat floated free.

Doc spoke into the voice tube. "Ham, electric engine power. All ahead, dead slow."

"All ahead dead slow, on electric, aye," came the reply through the tube, thin and tinny.

Doc handled the helm where he was, brought the boat out of the warehouse and into the East River. He manipulated the radio control again, and the door slid down shut, snug against a cement lintel on the riverbed. No swimmer could get under. The warehouse was safer than a bank. There was little other river traffic, and Doc hauled the boat over into the channel. He glanced at the fathometer to determine how much water was under the boat's keel. This ingenious device was the invention of a Canadian associate of the great Thomas Edison, and Doc had devised a few improvements to it. Those improvements Doc had immediately turned over to the Department of the Navy. Satisfied with what he read on the gauge, Doc called down the tube again. "I'm bringing her down to tower depth. Mind the gauges and valves."

"Bringing down, aye."

The bronze man pulled a series of levers. Far below, water flooded into ballast tanks. After counting a prescribed interval, he slammed them shut again. The upper hull of the boat sank beneath the surface of the river. Quickly, only the conning tower stood out of the water, four feet above the black water of New York City's East River. Fingers flicked a switch, and the boat's running lights went dark.

"Ham, stand by to switch over to Diesel."

"Standing by."

"Start engines."

"Starting engines, aye."

A rumble emerged from below decks. Directly behind the conning tower, a cluster of pipes rose from the hull of the boat. There was an odd whirring sound as one set of pipes began sucking down air to feed the motors. Another set of pipes began billowing thick black exhaust smoke.

A moment passed as Ham studied dials and indicators, making sure everything was working correctly.

"Operation on Diesel engines, ready to switch."

"Switch to Diesel."

"Switching now."

The vessel surged back as the electric motors shunted out, then forward as the Diesels took over. More black smoke belched as the engines took up the strain of pushing the sub through the water, then the engines settled, the smoke blew clear, and _Helldiver_ was well and truly under way. "Diesel engines engaged, securing battery power."

"Half ahead, all engines, Ham."

"Half ahead, all."

Doc looked at his wristwatch. Nearly half an hour had gone by, and it was almost 10:30. "Ham, go ahead and knock off. You'll stand the 12 to 4 watch, starting at midnight, so get some good rest. Monk will take the 4 to 8. Before you turn in, have him take a quick tour through the engine room and makes sure all is secure."

"Aye aye, Doc."

Ham secured the main control panel and walked forward to the galley. There he found Monk and Laddie drinking coffee and chatting. He sat down heavily and deliberately. "Doc says for you to doublecheck the engine room and go to bed because you've got the 12-4 watch. That's what you get for playing headwaiter while Doc and I are working."

Monk scowled, but it did not occur to him that Ham was pulling a "fast one" on him. He gazed fondly at Laddie, and arose. He refilled the woman's coffee cup, poured the remainder into his own. "I have to make sure the engines aren't on fire or anything. Well, I'll see you tomorrow. G'night." Monk looked thoughtfully at the empty coffee pot in his left hand. "Don't just sit there, make the lady some more coffee," and dropped the still-hot pot into Ham's lap before dashing aft. Reflexively, the lawyer jumped to his feet, dumping coffee grounds all over his smart yellow shoes and grey spats.

Maintaining his composure, Ham chuckled. "Well I suppose I can get them cleaned in Warsaw, ha ha." Under the table, his hands practiced strangling movements as they imagined Monk's throat. Shoes and spats both came from one of the most exclusive haberdashers on Fifth Avenue.

"You two are very close, aren't you? If all that bickering was for the real, you would have murdered each other long ago."

Ham's face purpled. Sooner would he pull out his own fingernails than admit the truth of what Laddie had just said.

"Don't worry," the girl said. "I understand for men it is difficult to share their hearts." She sipped delicately at her coffee. "Mr. Ham, you don't seem to think much of Mr. Monk's painting for me. You think is poor painting, or do you just say to be mean to him?"

Sheepishly, Ham looked away. The fluent orator floundered for words. "Um, well, I suppose a bit of both, I would admit."

"But I like it very much. And I tell you why. Yes, I know it is dimestore art, and is of value almost exactly the cost of paint and canvas. But the scene it shows – it is a very precious scene. My uncle has farm much like that. Too many times, soldiers marched into that painting, burned the barn, the house, the fields. America does not know that kind of war, not for long time. Poland, all of Europe, knows it much too well, and is going to know it again very soon, I fear. So go look at that painting, and understand why for you, it is cheap picture, but for me, is treasure like gold." She stared off for a moment, and Ham looked at his ruined spats and stained shoes. "What your friends are doing –were doing– is to help make it so that the Great War, and worse wars, not to happen again. They – they also are giving that picture for me."

Ham's voice returned. "Them, and Monk, and Doc, and me, too, Laddie. Don't worry. If there's any power in Heaven or Earth that can give you that picture, it's Doc Savage."

"Thank you Mr. Ham. I think I will kick the hay now."

"I think you mean 'hit the hay' "

"Sorry, yes, 'hit the hay'. I know when I am tired I lose my English, and this has been a very long day, and . . . well, I will tell to you more tomorrow. Good night, Mr. Ham."

"Good night, Laddie."

Laddie walked forward to her cabin. Ham pulled himself up the conning tower. "All secure Doc, and Monk said he'll take the 12-4 since he's such a night owl. I'm turning in myself now." Doc nodded, and Ham departed for his own bunk.

Doc Savage, alone at the helm, steered the Helldiver down the East River, towards the sea, towards Poland, towards trouble.

Chapter VII – Trouble in the New Empire

Once again, The Mongoose was displeased. No one liked him to be displeased. People died when The Mongoose was displeased. He addressed Tenzen in the same basement room where the lieutenant had received his gruesome promotion.

"Reports of Doc Savage's death were somewhat exaggerated, were they not?"

"I regret that such is the case, sir."

"Unless you have some other explanation? Why no bodies were found in the wreckage of the bronze man's aircraft?"

"None, sir. I was undoubtedly deceived. He is a clever sneak, but American trickery will prove no match for Preussen might and wit."

"Your confidence is refreshing. What is your latest report?"

"There has been no sign of this Savage or his two associates since the night in question. His office has been under surveillance, and it seems to be abandoned. Our operatives have been monitoring the ports, and none answering their description has left the country, at least from New York. We might conclude that he has left the area for climates that are more conducive to his health."

The Mongoose did not return the lieutenant's hopeful smile. "We might conclude that. But I don't think we shall. You underestimated him once already. You will not make that mistake again." The Mongoose drew a cigarette from a golden case, and lit it casually. "The New Empire has certain modes of operation and rules of conduct which, although raising us above the decadent peoples around us, carry their own inherent weaknesses."

He took a long inhalation of the cigarette, and eyed Lt. Tenzen, seeing if his statement elicited any response. Tenzen seemed puzzled. And nervous.

"What I mean, Lieutenant. Consider how you have come to your current post. Incompetent bunglers above you were weeded out, with neither mercy nor sentiment. That is the iron discipline which makes us strong, and which will rule the world. However, such a system does not often allow an individual the benefit of learning from his mistakes." Tenzen seemed to show some understanding. He seemed at least to understand that he would live to see another day.

"You have made a mistake, lieutenant. For such a mistake – for lesser mistakes– men's lives have been forfeited. Men who had no hope of being or doing anything better. But you – you, I believe have the potential for greatness. You have the great gifts of intelligence and realism. I think you are a man who can learn from a mistake such as this, and go on to achieve great things. I think you can go on to complete this mission successfully, for the glory of the New Empire and the Premier. Do you assure me that my faith in you is justified?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Excellent. In that case, present me with your Last Round."

The Lt. Tenzen caught his breath. The Last Round was a bullet, gold plated and largely ceremonial. It was carried by every soldier of the Gray Guard and symbolized the price of failure: when all was lost, the Last Round was for the soldier himself. He pulled it from the special slot in his ammunition case, and handed it to The Mongoose. The Mongoose's meaning was clear: when Tenzen's mission was over, it would be returned to him. Handed back to him, if successful. Failure, and the Last Round would be returned at muzzle velocity.

"I understand, sir."

He understood only in part. This last failure reflected poorly on The Mongoose himself, and Lindenplatz had again been displeased. Admitting another failure so quickly could put The Mongoose's own Last Round in jeopardy.

"Very good then, Lieutenant. Let us proceed then with the interrogation you propose. The man is here?"

"Yes sir."

"And he still does not know where he is, or who it is who has detained him?"

"No sir."

"You are aware that this creates another problem. What to do with him when we are finished. Even now, we could drop him off somewhere and he will have no idea who it was who took him, or why. Once the interrogation begins, it will be extremely difficult for him not to know who we are. And that is a problem."

"You mean, once we begin the questioning, he is a dead man."

"Precisely."

Tenzen snorted. "One more worthless American. It is his own fault for knowing anything about Savage." He pushed open a door in the basement complex. Strapped into a chair was the plump form and watery-eyed visage of Willard Marmelot.

A terrified squeal emerged from somewhere in the figure–a thick leather gag both filled the mouth and held the head tight against the headrest of the chair, so it cannot be said in all accuracy that the squeal escaped his lips.

"Look at this, Lieutenant, already he is terrified. His imagination already torments him with a thousand tortures of the flesh. We shall quickly extract from this jellyfish whatever he knows about Savage's whereabouts."

"Open the tool chest, and let's see what we have. And let's speak English too. We want him to understand everything now."

Lt. Tenzen opened up a largish cabinet, revealing a collection of instruments scientifically designed to efficiently extract information from an unwilling human subject. The cabinet opened up in a way so that its full contents were displayed to the occupant of the chair. Willard Marmelot's eyes bugged remarkably behind their glasses, and another thin squeal arose. Slowly, Tenzen extracted a half dozen different devices, and placed them on the tray in front of Willard. He picked up one peculiar tool which looked as if it might be used for opening lobsters. A shrill wail escaped from Willard Marmelot's rotund frame again.

Tenzen displayed another device which might have come from a doctor's or dentist's bag.

The Mongoose spoke. "Lieutenant, would you like to ungag the respondent now so you may ask him some questions?"

"No, sir, I think I'll apply some persuasion for a while. No point asking questions until I'm sure he's ready to talk to us."

"Good idea, Lieutenant."

Tenzen flicked open a straight razor and held it under Marmelot's nose. Willard Marmelot promptly fainted.

"Disgraceful," said The Mongoose. "A hundred Gray Guard could conquer this land."

Lt. Tenzen threw a glass of water in Marmelot's face, reviving him. Refilling the glass – there was a small sink in the room– he dashed it again at the plump face, this time making sure a good amount of water flooded up into the man's nostrils. Willard Marmelot purpled as he tried to find a way to breathe around his flooded nose.

"Uncomfortable, isn't it?" sneered Tenzen. "Perhaps next time the water will be boiling. Think about that. Think about it very hard. Until then . . ." He selected a leather strap from the tray, dipped it in water, and tied it around Marmelot's right arm, just below the elbow.

"Do you know what happens now, Willard my friend? First, the nice tight strap restricts the circulation to your arm. Then, as the leather dries, it gets tighter, cutting into the flesh. After, oh, a day or so, your arm will be swollen up like a balloon, only it is filled with blood, not air.

Then . . . well, you know what happens when you prick a balloon, yes?"

Willard Marmelot looked like he might faint again, but held onto his consciousness. His eyes bugged again as he looked at his arm, already turning pinkish.

"Perhaps you would like a new shoe, as well." Tenzen pulled off Marmelot's left shoe and sock, leaving his bare foot exposed, and placed a metal cage about it. The cage trailed an electrical cord. Tenzen held up the plug, and dangled it in front of terrified eyes. "I really don't want to plug this in, you plump sheep. The smell is terrible in such a small room. Now, we will loose your mouth, and see how free your tongue will be." At that, he did as much, removing the leather strap. Willard's head lolled forward, and he gasped for breath.

"You haven't even told me what you want!" Marmelot squealed. "Please stop this! I can't even think of anything I know that anyone would want to know as badly as this!" He wheezed asthmatically.

"Oh good," whispered The Mongoose. "Then you will have no hesitation in answering our questions."

"P- please . . . I don't want any trouble. Any more trouble. I'll tell you what I can, but I swear I don't know anything!"

"You don't know, let us say, where Mr. Clark Savage has gone to?" hissed the lieutenant.

Anger flared in Willard Marmelot's watery eyes. Things were different when Doc Savage was concerned. "No I don't, but I wouldn't tell you even if I did! Please, really, I'm only the receptionist, and I hardly ever see him, and please let me go now! If I'm not home soon my wife will be frantic! She'll – she'll call the police, she will, and then they'll find you, and you'll be in real trouble!"

The Mongoose regarded Tenzen coolly. "You may have missed an opportunity, Lieutenant. Even sheep like this sometimes have a hard edge. Does some other approach to persuading this loathsome creature occur to you?"

Tenzen thought frantically for a moment. "Ah, his wife, you mean?"

"Precisely."

"You mean, if he is too stubborn, we let him sit and watch while his wife is fitted with a new pair of shoes?"

"Excellent, Lieutenant. But I do not think that will be required. Already he is begging to talk. I am not sure he is ready to tell us everything we require, but we are off to a good start. You may proceed. I believe he had just threatened us with the police."

"Police! We have no fear of your police. We are untouchable by your, err, 'flatfoots'. You could die down here and no one would know, and no one could do anything even if they suspected."

"Careful, Lieutenant," said The Mongoose in Preussen. "He will die, but he will co-operate much better if he thinks he will live."

"Who are you palookas anyway?" asked Marmelot. Then, for the first time, he truly noticed Lt. Tenzen's uniform. His ruddy face went pale.

"We are your new masters. And now you shall tell us many interesting things. Tell us where Savage is."

Willard Marmelot clamped his mouth shut.

"Tell us where Savage's office is."

"Everybody knows that! You bums must be real saps not to know that."

"Maybe we do."

"Then you don't need me to tell you."

"But we want to hear you tell us, Marmelot."

"Go to blazes."

"It's on the eighty-sixth floor of that building, isn't it? Is that right?" Tenzen dragged the edge of the razor along Marmelot's swollen arm, very lightly. A thin scratch appeared, and blood welled up in a few spots.

"Yes! Yes! You already know it! Why are you doing this to me?"

"Excellent, Lieutenant," said The Mongoose. "Now that he has answered one question, it is like the first leak in the dam. His will has been broken, even if it is over an unimportant detail which we already knew. He said he would not crack, but he did, and that is what is important. Even now, listening to us analyze his failure, he knows he has broken, and can only break more. He hates himself now, and knows he is a weakling. He is yours now. Well done."

Willard Marmelot groaned. He knew what he just heard was true. He had failed.

"Well then, Marmelot, where is Savage?"

"I don't know!"

"Where is his office?"

"The eighty-sixth-floor!"

"When is the last time he was there?"

"Nuts to you!"

"When is the last time you saw him?"

"Go chase a cat up a tree!"

"Where is Savage's office?"

"The eighty-sixth-floor!"

"Do the regular elevators go to the eighty-sixth floor?"

"Of course!" Willard Marmelot groaned as he realized he had answered another question, even if it was another meaningless one.

"Where is the private elevator?"

"I'm not telling you heels!"

"Very good, Lieutenant. Now he has told us that there is a private elevator."

Willard hung his head and sobbed.

"Where is the private elevator?"

"Not telling," Willard mumbled.

"Mr. Marmelot, be reasonable. Sooner or later, you will tell us everything you know, and maybe it will be important to us, maybe it will not. But you will tell. The only question is – what condition will you be in when you have finished –how is it said– 'singing like a canary bird'?"

Willard Marmelot discovered in that moment deeper reserves of courage and character he ever knew he had. Looking Tenzen square in the eye, he took a deep breath and expectorated copiously in the Lieutenant's face. "I'm finished singin'," he declared.

Enraged, Lt. Tenzen backhanded Marmelot across the face. Spectacles clattered across the floor. Tenzen's heavy ring traced a furrow across Willard's right cheek. "It is a capital crime to so assault an officer of the New Empire," he hissed. "And now, you have earned your wife that new pair of shoes we spoke of."

The Mongoose put his hand on Tenzen's shoulder. "I think we are done with this toad for a while. Let him watch his arm swell for a day, and perhaps he will feel differently. And let us arrange for him a joyful reunion with his wife. Come."

With that, the two torturers stepped out, leaving Willard alone, sobbing and humiliated. "I'm sorry, Doc, wherever you are," he whispered into the air. "And Lucille, oh Lucille, stay in Pennsylvania with your mother for another week!"

Outside the torture chamber, the two conferred briefly. "Shall I really bring in his wife, sir?"

"Not yet. He has put on a bold face, but I think he is very weak. If you like, set up and play the Dictaphone recording of the screaming woman. If he thinks she is here, isolated, he can torment himself even more with the thought of her agony. The thought that he is responsible for it, the thought she may not even understand why she is being so treated: it is almost as good as if she really was. But right now, really to do so would probably be more trouble than it is worth." The Mongoose lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. "You are now in charge of special operations here, Lt. Tenzen. I have been recalled to the Fatherland and will be returning to Lindenplatz on tonight's airship. The Premier has requested a personal briefing on the situation."

"Understood."

"I will want daily reports filed on the Savage operation. Top priority, top security. And I expect to see real progress. You have started well with that fat sheep. But it is only a start."

Chapter VIII – Under Way

_Helldiver_ made its slow but steady progress across the North Atlantic. Three days out, Laddie sat at the galley table, and Monk was busy at the stove cooking bacon and eggs. "Don't let that smooth-talking lawyer bamboozle you, Laddie. Let me tell you something, he's something of a wolf, and I think he's gonna try howling at you."

Laddie sipped her coffee, and regarded Monk with slight amusement. "Oh, is that so? Thank you for warning me."

"Usually I don't mind him carrying on so much like he does, chasing any girl he sees, but you're such a swell kid I wanted to warn you about something."

"Please, go on."

"I'll tell you, but you've gotta promise to keep it to yourself. I mean Doc knows, and the rest of us, but this is something that could get him disbarred and kicked out of all his fancy Fifth Avenue clubs. I sure wouldn't want that to happen." Monk set two plates of bacon and scrambled eggs on the small table.

"Oh dear." Laddie daintily selected a piece of bacon from her plate and nibbled delicately. She firmly controlled the smile that was trying to turn up the corners of her mouth.

"Well, sometimes you hear Ham talk kind of English, you know? And usually folks think it's just him putting on airs. But the truth is, he really is English. It's his talking American that's the act."

"I never would have guessed."

"No kiddin'. He was once the second or third highest ranking barrister in England. He was a Knight of the Bath and wore the Order of the Black Garter. Tea at Buckingham Palace was no more to him than grabbing a hot dog off the corner push cart."

"You don't say." Laddie took a delicate bite of eggs from her fork. Her eyes sparkled to hear Monk's tale.

"I do say. But he ended up having a heck of a dust up with the king. He had been invited to the queen's birthday party, see? And without even giving it a second thought, he brought along his wife to the party."

Laddie's eyes widened in astonishment. "His wife, you say? I had no idea he was married."

"In the worst way. With a dozen kids, yet. So, he's brought his wife along to the queen's party, only, the wife ain't on the invite, just him. Well, the High Royal Gatesman says, She can't come in. And Ham says, The Devil she can't, and the king and queen both can go right to him if my wife can't come in."

"Magnificent! How noble."

"As you can imagine, the king hears all the commotion at the door, and goes over to see what the ruckus is, and, well, long and short is, Ham near gives the king a knuckle sandwich over the party invite and whether or not Mrs. Ham is gonna get in. Of course, no self-respecting king is gonna let any of his subjecks mouth off to him like that, so Ham ends up going down the back stairs of Buckingham Palace on his backside, Mrs. Ham can't show her face at the Westminster Abbey Ladies Social Club any more, and the kids all get thrown out of Eton."

"How dreadful."

"So word comes from the Palace, that the only thing left is for Ham to go into exile for twenty years, and that'll repair his family's honor, and at least Mrs. Ham will be allowed to stay on as secretary of the women's club at Westminster Abbey, and the kids won't have to go to Australia to go to school."

"Most remarkable."

"So that's how he came to America and changed his name to Theodore Brooks."

"Oh, a false identity too? How exciting."

"Of course, to help protect his family at home. Just between the two of us, his real name is Sacheveral Farthingay Coldwater-Fawcett. The Fifth."

Laddie nearly choked on her scrambled eggs, and took a large gulp of coffee to cover her mirth. Having recovered her composure and put a look of wide-eyed, innocent belief back on her face, she said, "That is the saddest and most extraordinary tale I have heard in many years, Mr. Monk."

"Just don't let him know I told you any of this, it's kind of a sore spot with him, as you can imagine."

"I'm sure."

"I just want to make sure you don't fall for one of his smooth lines."

"Really, I can't imagine a man who was ready to strike a king over his wife and go into exile for her could be such a wolf."

"Err, I suppose the whole tragic affair loosened a screw or two in his head, too. Take my word, just steer clear of him. He's a good friend, and as one of Doc Savage's crew, he's, well, he's adequate, I suppose. But anything to do with dames or romance, he is bad news, a dead letter, a real 'Thou-shalt-not.' And, well, I just don't want to see him break your heart."

"Your advice is appreciate. I never could have guessed such a things. I am fortunate that my heart is already secured."

Monk's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"I am afraid both Mr. Ham and you will be disappointed to know I already have an engagement to be married."

Monk's face collapsed. "Oh. I'm . . . I'm relieved to hear that. For your sake. Someone in New York?"

"No, at home. In Warsaw. I'll be seeing him soon."

"Oh. That's great. Yikes, I gotta get up top and relieve Doc on watch. Well, it's been swell talking to you. Come on up later on if you want. It's a nice view." Monk walked off to relieve Doc.

Trying not to look distraught, Monk looked at the bronze man. "She's engaged," he said, in a voice of woe.

Doc passed on the vessel's course and speed without further comment and went below. Monk stood and watched the waves roll by. "Hang it! Hang it all! I'm done with dames!"

Four hours later, Monk still stared at the sea. He scarcely noticed when the length of a sword cane rested itself on his shoulder, razor-sharp edge caressing his throat.

"Sacheveral Farthingay Coldwater-Fawcett, the Fifth?"

"Yeah, a drip from a long line of drips. Go ahead and slice, I don't care no more. And you ain't gonna get her neither, so why don't you just jump over the side right now?"

"No, I'm going to ensure both of us live. And I will become the bane of your existence. I intend to make you so miserable that in future, you will look back on this moment, and it will seem like an Elysian paradise in comparison. Now get below you unkempt atavistic throwback."

Ham took the watch and turned his mind to contemplating new ways to torture Monk. Monk went below to sulk in his cabin and not think about Laddie. Doc Savage, having completed his daily routine of physical and mental exercises, rested. Laddie sat in her cabin, and read newspapers already old. The news was not good, anywhere.

Ham and Monk bickered less often as the boat made its slow pace across the Atlantic. Any who knew them well would have taken that as a danger sign. But it is difficult for even the best of sailors, or the best of friends, to endure weeks aboard a submarine – cramped at best, constant danger of weather and sea, isolated from all civilization, and limited diet – without being strained. Add to that the perilous mission ahead of them, the kidnapping of their friends by a hostile foreign power, and the presence of a beautiful woman, and few can appreciate or describe the tension aboard _Helldiver_. Doc Savage all but hoped for some sort of enemy attack just to divert his men.

Twice they fueled. Once off the coast of Greenland. A small tank vessel disguised as a fishing trawler came alongside at dawn, passed over hoses, and fed vital Diesel oil into the sub's fuel tanks. And again, at the British Naval base at Scapa Flow. Small alongside Britain's mighty dreadnoughts and sleek cruisers, _Helldiver_ tied up for several hours not only to top up fuel and food stores, but to allow Doc and three Royal Navy engineers to inspect the engines and perform any needed maintenance or repairs. Such was the power conjured by the name of "Clark Savage, Jr."! Ham had arranged this convenience prior to departure, by way of his many connections within the British government, but he had no doubt it was the name of Doc Savage, rather than his sparkling oratory, which was the final persuasive.

After the men and Laddie were allowed the luxury of proper bathing at the base, _Helldiver_ set forth once more into the North Sea, and presently slipped into the Baltic. Although summer, seas were rough, and the men couldn't stand watch on the conning tower. _Helldiver_ ran nearly submerged, the tower sealed, visual lookout through the periscope.

The next evening, Monk stood at the periscope. His watch was almost over. He pressed his beetling brow into the eyepiece, trying to get a clearer look at a dark shape on the horizon. "Doc!" he bawled. "You better look at this!"

Doc Savage appeared at Monk's shoulder, as quickly and quietly as a brazen ghost. "Have you seen much other traffic out there, Monk?" he asked.

"Not for the whole watch, Doc, come to think of it. That's kinda funny, ain't it?" He relinquished the periscope to the bronze man.

"The Baltic Sea is one of the most heavily travelled bodies of water in the world," Doc stated. Softly there floated the peculiar trilling that was Doc Savage's almost-unconscious warning cry. "It's a warship," he stated flatly. "A destroyer." He scrutinized the ship's silhouette a moment more. "Preussen."

Monk gulped. A Preussen submarine hunter! It couldn't be co-incidence! Already Monk was stepping toward the boat's controls.

"Dive," said Doc. There was no howling klaxon that Hollywood has made familiar with its films. Aboard _Helldiver_, Doc's word was all that was necessary.

"Ham!" Monk howled. "Time to do something useful!" His oddly shrill voice penetrated the small boat, and Ham appeared moments later. "Trouble."

"And you can't handle it. Opposable thumbs would help." With danger stalking them, the two resumed the feud that united them.

"Throw some valves if you can stand to get your hands dirty. We're diving."

Well-trained, the two spun valves to flood the sub's ballast chambers.

"Keep her within periscope depth for now," advised Doc. "Ham, change over to battery power."

"Isn't that the first thing you do when Doc says 'Dive', Piltdown?" Ham sneered to Monk. "Or did you want to fill us up like a bathtub?"

"I already closed the engine snorkel, Judge Know-It-All," hissed back Monk. "Just kill the Diesels and throw the electrics switch. Call your sweetheart if you need help moving those handles."

"What's going on anyway?"

"Preussen sub killer. Betcha he's looking for us."

Ham paled momentarily. "But we're on the high seas! International waters! Even they wouldn't dare attack out here!" Ham's mind turned, of course, to the legal aspect of the situation. "They're not at war with anyone – not yet – and even so, how could they identify us as an enemy vessel?"

"We may not be in international waters, Ham." Doc's voice was grim. His eyes glanced over the instruments; saw that they were well settled at a good depth and that the electric engines were functioning well. "Stop engines."

"All stop," Monk responded automatically, and pulled the engine telegraph to the "Stop" position. The motors and propellers slowed, stopped, and the pigboat was eerily quiet.

Doc pointed at the chart table. "With the sky overcast night and day, we haven't had a proper navigational fix since leaving sight of Scapa Flow. I have been navigating purely by dead reckoning, making for the central coast of Poland. But there is no way to tell if the Gotland Current is flowing normally or stronger than usual. If it has been stronger than usual, then we may very well have drifted west – into Preussen waters."

"And they'd be well within their rights to sink us," observed Ham, grimly.

"How the heck could they have found us, Doc? I mean, do you think they're looking for us, or is it just a regular patrol?"

"They appear to be sailing in a standard search pattern. However, they may only be performing an exercise. Did either of you observe any aircraft in the last 24 hours?"

"Nah, not me Doc. Not with the lid shut like that. The periscope still can't look up, and you couldn't hear an airplane down here anyway."

Doc nodded. He had, in fact, designed a modification to the periscope which would have allowed it to tilt up, specifically for aerial observation. Unfortunately, a number of other more important projects had occupied his efforts. The missing Renny was the only other man Doc would have trusted the job to, and the periscope modification had been left undone.

Ham likewise shook his head. "Sorry, Doc. If there was something up there, I never saw it."

"It is likely that it was an airship rather than an airplane. Preussen has been developing lighter-than-air designs for military use, and they have a long history of civilian craftsmanship to build on. You recall that the treaty ending the Great War severely restricted Preussen from building military aircraft, but a technicality existed that permitted them to pursue airship development. The airship was considered nearly obsolete in 1918, and the Great Powers never imagined it could be resurrected as a serious instrument of war. It is very probable that Preussen has done just that."

The three considered the prospect of a sky filled with armed airships – raining down bombs from a platform almost silent, mounting an array of machine guns able to shred attacking fighters, and able to duck inside cloud cover to evade detection.

"In a typical London fog, a dozen of them could hover over Parliament or the Palace, drop bombs all day, and they'd never be seen or heard," mused Ham. "And conventional aircraft could hardly fly. Not without the devil's own job of getting into the air and back down again."

"She's turning this way," said Doc. "Monk, full ballast. We're going to sit on the bottom for a time. Ham, go and caution Laddie that we are operating under absolute silence."

As the boat sunk, Doc eyed the depth sounder. Rarely did Doc's expertise and judgment fail him. But inside a sealed submarine, with no way to navigate, there is no way to tell how strong a current might be carrying it. No instrument can measure anything except how water is moving against the hull of a vessel. A boat or ship of any size may seem, to all instruments and eyesight, to be sitting dead still in the water. But the water itself may be moving swiftly in a current! And without some outside navigational reference, as had not been available to _Helldiver_, a vessel can be carried many miles off course, and neither man nor machine could know. Doc had allowed for current in his calculations, but possibly not enough.

In the silence on the bottom of the sea, with only the eerily distorted sound of the sub destroyer's propellers from the speaker, Doc reflected on the situation while performing some of the astonishing physical exercises that had forged his body. He began in the fingers: strain the muscles against each other that would curl and extend the index finger. The middle finger. Ring finger, and so on, each finger and thumb, and on up the arm. As muscles tightened and strained, he considered the possibility that they actually were where they wanted to be, and that it the Preussen who was operating in flagrant violation of The Law of the Sea. Until the danger was past –and they had survived it– and they could surface – and find land by which to navigate – there was no way to tell.

Despite being a physical and mental powerhouse, Doc Savage was an exemplar of the moral virtues as well: not for a moment was he so vain or prideful as to dismiss the possibility that he had committed such a dangerous error. If anything, his profound learning and spectacular physical development had only deepened his humility and awareness that he was, after all, a fallible mortal and not some proud superman looking down in pity on lesser creatures. He was a man. But a veritable icon of what a man could be!

Doc flipped a switch and an exterior microphone hummed to life. The sound of the sub destroyer's propellers came through a small speaker, coming closer, receding, coming closer, receding, but ever closer as it sailed a back-and-forth search pattern. Doc noted one fluttering needle which indicated volume: at each closer approach, the needle would peak a fraction higher. Doc was watching for the peak of peaks which would indicate that the hunter was moving on. Doc's keen ears detected something else in the sounds.

"Brace yourselves!" he commanded quietly. He jumped to the control and turned down the volume of the speaker. A muted roar exploded through the speaker, and from the hull too! The boat shuddered and rocked.

"Depth charges! Ruddy depth charges!" Ham's voice, even whispered, conveyed simultaneous rage and amazement.

A terrible minute ticked by on the clock, and there was another explosion. This one was noticeably less violent, and further away. "They may be dropping a pattern," cautioned Doc. A third blast, and then a fourth were increasingly distant, and the propeller noise likewise faded.

The men, and Laddie, looked at each other for a long moment. Doc nodded his head.

"Whoo!" exploded Monk. "How come it's so stuffy down here? I haven't taken a breath for ten minutes, I don't think."

Indeed, the air was growing warm and humid. Even the best of Doc Savage's devices for recirculating air could not extract carbon dioxide and turn it back into oxygen indefinitely.

Doc pushed a lever, then another, and two more, all the while scrutinizing gauges. "Let us remain as silent as possible. I have blown ballast that should put us at neutral buoyancy. We will ascend very slowly and make a thorough scan before surfacing. There may be another warship lying in wait for us."

But as _Helldiver_ reached periscope depth, a careful scan revealed no other vessels. A final rise to the surface, and Doc popped open the conning tower hatch and quickly scanned the skies for winged aircraft and lighter-than-air ships alike. The seas were calmer now, and they continued on with the tower opened, standing watch in the free air.

Laddie too came up to breathe the fresh sea air. Ham stood and scanned the horizon with powerful binoculars, and frequently looked at the sky as well. They chatted meaninglessly, in the manner of those who have just had brush with death and are trying to keep that fact from their mind. Suddenly Laddie squinted, looked ahead. "What's that so dark up there?" she queried. Ham leaned forward on the rail, pressed the glasses to his eyes.

"Land! Hey, Doc, land ho! We're here – wherever here is!"

Doc stood on the conning tower platform. "Turn northeast, Ham. We'll continue up the coast until we can positively determine our position. If we are not in Polish waters already, we want to be."

"Aye aye, Doc." Ham spun the wheel, and brought the sub on the prescribed course.

Below, Doc studied coastal pilots – navigational books which contained descriptions, drawings, and photographs of shoreline and landmarks, precisely for the purpose of helping the mariner determine his location. Doc compared what he read with what he had seen through the binoculars. Nothing yet seemed to match. He continued studying, memorizing, all the descriptions of the Polish coast. Doc went back above, and scrutinized the distant landscape. Within fifteen minutes, a small fishing village came into sight.

Doc Savage noted a number of buildings and features: a water tower, a church spire, a lighthouse in the bay. "Gaska, Poland," announced Doc.

Monk had popped his grotesque knob of a head up through the hatch. "So Doc, where were we when those pirates were chasing us? Were we in Preussen waters or Polish? Or international?"

Doc looked thoughtful. "It hardly matters. That Preussen seemed to be expecting us is of far more importance. However, although we can never be certain, I believe we were in a zone which has been disputed by these two countries for almost three hundred years. It has to do with a point of land that juts out from Preussen, Cape Flinzen. Preussen claims that this bit of land gives it rights in waters that are otherwise indisputably Polish. The effect is that Preussen asserts rights reaching to within a half-mile of Polish seaside."

Monk scratched his head. "I'm gonna have to look at that chart, Doc. I can't see how that would happen at all. But that's where we were?"

"I believe that to be so," stated Doc.

"We just gonna tie up at those fishing docks?"

"No. You three will go ashore under cover of darkness in the inflatable. I'll moor the sub underwater and join you after."

As Doc stated, the three others paddled ashore in an inflatable boat made of rubber-treated canvas, all but unsinkable. Doc performed one of the most dangerous maneuvers known to the mariner – anchoring and disembarking a sub underwater!

_Helldiver's_ traditional two bow anchors were supplemented by a stern anchor as well. Holding the boat scant feet off the bottom, Doc first dropped the stern anchor, letting chain pay out and hang slack. He kicked the boat ahead, barely moving, and nosed her bow to port, only then dropping the port bow anchor. He then moved astern, straightening her out, and performed the opposite job, dropping the starboard anchor: then reversing again onto the boat's original heading. Only then did Doc haul in, slowly and evenly, on the two bow anchors. When the two forward chains were tight, he finally brought in the stern anchor chain, making all three anchors dig tightly into the bottom and draw the chains up tight. With that, Doc's final task was to blow all ballast so _Helldiver _settled her hull into the sand and take up any remaining slack in the anchor chains. When he was finished, the boat was as secure had she been tied up at home, at the Hidalgo Trading Company.

Then the riskiest part, that which Doc asked only himself to do – escaping from a submarine at the bottom of the sea! He first shut down all the power systems, carrying only his flashlight to illuminate his way to the forward escape trunk. There, he sealed the heavy watertight door behind him, and cracked open a valve. Water began trickling in, steady and none too slow, flooding the small chamber. Few men could have stood there, cold seawater swirling up past their knees, in all but total darkness, thirty feet underwater, in a chamber not much bigger than a coffin, without their nerves cracking.

As the water reached his neck, Doc Savage found the end of a small rubber hose. On the end of the hose was a mouthpiece similar to that which can be found on an aqualung. A valve at the base of the hose released a flow of compressed air, and Doc breathed normally from this as the escape trunk flooded completely. Now the escape hatch overhead opened easily. Doc took a few more breaths from the air supply. Shutting off the airflow, he kicked straight upwards, and in moments broke the surface. Swimming easily through the frigid water, Doc headed for shore. He shone the flashlight toward the docks and flickered the beam. A response came quickly, and Doc headed for his three companions. Soon all four stood together on the cobbled road running along the seaside.

"Here," said Laddie. She opened the large purse she carried. "Polish identity cards for all for you. Not counterfeit, either. Authentic, from the Ministry."

"What now, Doc?" asked Ham.

"It is already late evening. I suggest we find an inn. There is a railroad depot here, and we should be able to ride to Warsaw in comfort in the morning."

They found an inn in town. An ancient man looked at Ham and Laddie, then at Doc Savage. Slowly, he removed and polished his spectacles, and looked again at Doc. This performance he repeated after looking at Monk.

"We would like four rooms, if you have them," stated Doc, in fluent Polish.

"Of course, sir, anything you like!" The innkeeper continued staring. "You will have dinner too?"

"Please."

Doc and his men enjoyed comfort and hospitality that they usually were not afforded when on a mission. As such, they savored every moment, as they knew how quickly their situation could change – and probably would!

"Is there a telegraph office in town?" inquired Laddie.

"Telegraph? No. The nearest telegraph office is in Pivo, ten kilometers east. But I have a telephone."

Almost imperceptibly, Doc shook his head. Telephones were too easily bugged. Doc presumed that Laddie, an intelligence officer, would know as much, but he wanted to be sure.

Laddie laughed her laugh of silver bells. "Not unless you can connect me long-distance to Damascus."

The innkeeper frowned. "Damascus? In Syria?" He rubbed his shiny head, and regarded the battered instrument on the desk doubtfully. "It may be possible, depending on who is the operator at the trunk station in Gdynia tonight . . . But I cannot say how long it would take or how expensive it would be."

Silver bells wreathed Laddie again. "Never mind, we'll travel to Pivo in a day or so and visit the telegraph office there. It's nothing urgent, just my aunt and uncle are there buying Oriental rugs for their store in America. I'm hoping to find a ship and meet them there in about two months."

"Ah. Just dinner and the rooms then. I'll call the boy to show you your rooms." He peered at the floor. "You have no luggage?"

"No," replied Doc, offering no excuse or explanation.

"Mm." The old man expressed a wealth of disapproval and suspicion in his terse grunt. "Well, there is a tailor in the high street who can sell you some clothing if you need any more."

A boy in shabby but clean clothes showed them to their rooms, passed out keys.

Downstairs, the innkeeper opened up a desk drawer and extracted a slip of paper. The man from the government had been very polite, but very insistent: Preussen spies could be operating anywhere in the border areas. If there were any unusual visitors in town, he was to call and notify the Special Police at once. He carried the telephone into his private office and shut the door. "Hello, Nastya? Oh Maria, good evening. Please, could you ring me this number in Lodz . . ?"

The dinner offered them later was plain but substantial–cabbage, sausage, a fried potato dumpling called _pierogie_.

They retired and slept well, Doc not omitting the hour of exercises by which he trained his body and mind.

Doc awoke at precisely 4:00 a.m. One of the abilities which he had cultivated was a mental alarm clock, by which he could rouse himself at any desired time without relying on the inconvenience –or the noise– of a mechanical clock.

Catlike, silent and invisible in the pre-dawn gloom, he glided to the rooms of his three companions.

"Wake, and be ready to go in five minutes," Doc said to each in a low voice.

Rousing themselves quickly and throwing on clothing, Ham, Monk, and Laddie soon stood in Doc's room. Not a light had been struck, nor a word spoken, save for Doc's instructions.

Motioning to the window, Ham and Monk saw Doc's grappling hook and line of silk thread hanging to the ground. Monk squeezed his bulk through the window, and slid down the line nearly as easily as Doc himself, apelike fists clutched around the thread. Ham tackled the job with his own novel approach: rather than risk burning his hands or slicing them through, he took two turns of the line around his sword cane, and allowed himself a slower, controlled descent by tension of the line around the cane.

Doc grabbed Laddie up in one arm, then lowered the both of them to the ground with just the strength of his other arm. A quick flick released the hook: Doc stowed hook and line in the hidden pocket of his vest, and the four, following Doc Savage, headed for the woods.

Only after a half an hour of silent flight through the forest did Monk's curiosity triumph. "What happened back there, Doc? Hearing suspicious noises?"

Frequently Doc Savage responded to such inquiries from his men with . . . no response at all. He preferred keeping his methods concealed, even from his own men, on the theory that what they did not know, they could not betray, either unknowingly or under torture. However, this time, Doc spoke freely.

"As we went upstairs after dinner, I observed that the telephone was no longer on the desk, but that the wire ran into the innkeeper's private office. Such a thing may have been purely innocent, but could also have been done for more sinister reasons. Accordingly, I went back downstairs and used a light dose of anesthetic gas on our host. I then imitated his voice and asked the operator to put me through to the last connection she had made for him. I informed the man who answered that the visitors at the inn said they would be leaving directly after breakfast in the morning, and that they should have a man there before that. The gentleman informed me that the Special Police would have an officer at the inn at 6:00 a.m., and that I should be sure the visitors did not leave before that."

"Where was the office you called?" inquired Laddie.

"Lodz."

Laddie frowned. "There is no Special Police office in Lodz."

"I didn't think so," said Doc drily.

"You think the innkeeper is a spy?"

"Not as such. I believe he thinks he has passed information to Polish authorities. I suspect the office he called was in fact a Preussen spy ring, masquerading as Polish Special Police."

"My own operatives have reported that exactly such an operation has been in place for two months," confirmed Laddie.

"So we would have had Preussen spies knockin' on our doors this morning, huh, Doc?" said Monk.

"And a trip to Grafmann Prison in Lindenplatz, no doubt," muttered Ham.

"Very possibly," affirmed Doc. Grafmann Prison was notorious, even if not well-known to the world. A Medieval castle built by the Knights Templar, it now functioned as the prison where the Preussen secret police held critics of the New Empire who became too vocal for the Premier's taste, former leaders of opposition political parties, and anyone else deemed to be a danger to the power of the Premier. No one was ever released from Grafmann Prison. But rumors suggested that many bodies were buried there.

"At some point," continued Doc, "we may need to be taken in to Preussen custody. But when that time comes, it will be in a place and manner of our own choosing."

Laddie and the men were silent. Being in the hands of the Preussen secret police was a prospect to freeze the blood of any man. And Doc Savage had just suggested that they might deliberately choose such a fate!

Laddie seemed aghast, looked at Doc as if he was a madman. But all she saw was grim, steely, resolve on the faces of Ham and Monk. Such was their faith in the amazing man of bronze that they would have lined up silently, grimly, behind him if he told them they were going to storm the gates of Hades itself with nothing more than their fists and wits as weapons.

Still, Doc rarely spoke without purpose. Part of the reason for his unusual talkativeness was to observe the effect of his remarks on Laddie. Few people, no matter their profession –spy or salesman– can control their spontaneous reactions perfectly. Doc was dropping clues which he gauged would produce all-but-imperceptible, but predictable, reactions in Laddie: were she a Preussen spy. So far though, her reactions were perfectly in character with what she seemed to be. Doc, never easily satisfied with the confidence he placed in others besides his own men, took reasonable reassurance in her _bona fides_.

Nevertheless, it seemed to Doc that their movements had been tracked perhaps too easily. Despite Laddie's reassurances of secrecy –as well as Ham and Monk's– he always assumed that somewhere, somehow, secrets got out. Occasionally he would make some statement, or reveal some plan, for the express purpose of seeing who might end up with that information. That way, he knew better who might –or might not!– be trusted.

"So where are we heading, Doc?" inquired Monk. "Into Preussen? Looks like they'll be expecting us in Warsaw."

Doc Savage shook his head. "As long as we know our enemies are expecting us, we are not ourselves compromised. In fact, it gives us the advantage. In any case, we must find some clues as to the whereabouts of Renny and Long Tom. They could be anywhere in a fairly large country. Perhaps even Grafmann Prison. More likely a smaller, secret location. Grafmann is for prisoners the Premier wants known to be prisoners. I doubt the New Empire is eager just yet for an international incident over American citizens held in its most notorious jail." He didn't want his men, or Laddie, to dwell too much on the thought that they might allow themselves to be captured in a place and manner that would be likely to re-unite them with the two already-captive men.

About two hours after daybreak, they spotted a town. Doc went ahead and reconnoitered, then came back with his assessment. "No police were visible, except regular town officers. And there is a train station. Let's go to Warsaw."

Chapter IX – The Wolf's Lair

Field Marshall Kreizler smiled at the man seated opposite him. "Your progress in this matter is satisfactory, Major. The Premier is receiving favorable reports on your efforts twice a week. Upon successful conclusion of this project, you may expect both a decoration and a promotion."

"Thank you, Field Marshall!" Seated as he was, The Mongoose maintained an attitude of ramrod attention. The power he wielded, the fear he struck in his men, was the merest shadow of the power and fear held casually in the hands of Field Marshall Kreizler. He and five other men were the Command Staff of the Premier. He and five other men had the rare privilege of unannounced access to the Premier, any time of the day or night. He and five other men had the rare privilege of addressing the Premier by his first name . . . in private . . . on the Premier's good days.

"Our only worry is the two Americans already in custody. We understand that some men will not be persuaded, not even by your best methods. Such as these will remain stubborn and defiant to the end. However, we do not want Preussen honor sullied by the deaths of these men. Not before Preussen honor has the full strength of Preussen might to stand behind it."

The Field Marshall smirked. "Therefore, although we continue to endorse your best persuasion, you may rest assured that you will not be held to account if they do not ultimately co-operate. Be sure to keep them alive, though, and in reasonably good repair.

"We thereby achieve two other objectives. First, we have neutralized whatever they may have done for the Polish enemy. Whatever they were doing, they were still vital. Other intelligence sources have told us as much.

"Second, they remain as bait for the elusive Mr. Clark Savage, Jr. He is a very dangerous man. We would much prefer to have him close, where, even if he will not help us, at least he cannot hurt us."

"But – the American government, Field Marshall? Would they not take drastic steps to assure his return?"

Field Marshall Kreisler smirked again. "How would they know he was here? This isolated fortress was designed with precisely this sort of prisoner in mind. This facility does not exist, officially. Return to Lindenplatz and search the files, even the Premier's own Prime Secret records. This place does not exist! Yet here we are.

"And even if the Americans did suspect we had him, even suspected such a place as this, what could they do? File a protest with our embassy? Americans are superstitious, fearful, weaklings. They believe in themselves until they take two steps into the ocean. The great national pride they boast of does not extend beyond sight of land. They have not the will, nor the courage, nor the resources to wage any sort of military campaign that does not reach their own streets. Oh, yes, they might shout and shake their fists and promise a dreadful storm of war on our heads, but in the end, they will let us do as they please. As long their baseball games and radio programmes are there for them, the fate of seven men will bring no harsher response from them than angry letters to their newspaper editors. Yes, Major, I know Americans."

"These men –even the two here already– are brilliant men, we know that! Surely they must be clever enough to realize that the New Empire is the future not only of Europe, but of the world! If only I can appeal to their reason, I'm sure I can convince them that working for us is in the best interests of the whole world!"

"It's almost amusing to hear you speak of appealing to their reason, Major, when your usual methods are so, err, direct, let us say. But I applaud your sentiments. Let us visit our guests, since you are here. Perhaps they may be more co-operative if they think their leader Savage is dead."

"It may make them less so. These are not ordinary men, you must understand. It will probably be best to leave Savage's condition . . . ambiguous," stated the Mongoose.

With that, the two descended stairs and passed through a set of well-guarded and well-armored doors. A dim corridor stretched twenty feet ahead of them, small cells on either side. At the far end another guard was stationed behind a machine-gun emplacement. He looked bored, but snapped to attention as the two officers entered.

"All secure in the cell block, sirs!" he shouted, arm stretched in salute.

"Have our prisoners been talkative today, corporal?" asked the Mongoose.

"They speak occasionally, sir!" barked the guard.

"That is good, corporal, we want them to feel comfortable here."

"Understood, sir!"

Four cells lined each side of the corridor, secured with heavy steel doors. An opening, about one foot square, was protected by steel bars. The Mongoose and the Field Marshall peered through the bars of Cell #1.

"Bah!" scoffed the Mongoose.

Truly, the occupant of Cell #1 was not an exemplary-looking specimen of the human race. An uninformed visitor would have thought Major Thomas J. "Long Tom" Roberts had already spent years, if not decades, or indeed his entire life inside the sunless prison walls, with no more physical ability to his credit than walking from one side of the cell to the other. Pale skin reminiscent of mushrooms covered musculature hardly worthy of the name – or so it seemed. But in fact, appearances are often quite deceiving, and as one of Doc Savage's men, Long Tom had astonished many a wrongdoer with his unexpected physical prowess: almost always to said wrongdoer's profound dismay. It also happened that Long Tom was one of the world's foremost geniuses with regard to all things electrical, including radio.

"A pathetic looking excuse for a man, isn't he?" observed the Field Marshall. "He would survive about a day and a half in the Preussen Army."

"He would survive less than that as an honest Preussen farmer," sneered the Mongoose.

The two had been speaking in English, precisely so they would be understood. Long Tom stood up from his cot and casually sauntered the few steps to the door. "At least I'm still a man and not a dressed-up pig running orders for bigger pigs." He spoke in Preussen, and in that language, the word for "pig" was susceptible to a bit of wordplay which punned on the name of the Premier. The newspaper editor who had first noted that detail in print, in the first weeks of the New Empire, died of heart failure a few days later, at the age of thirty-one. Or so his own newspaper reported.

"Mr. Roberts, your life is already in jeopardy, as you no doubt know. Why must you seek even more trouble for yourself?"

Long Tom stood silently, glaring at his captors through the bars.

"Are you ready to co-operate with us, Mr. Roberts? Please know, all we want to do is to be able to defend ourselves from Polish aggression, which your own reckless actions have made more likely than ever. Surely you don't want to be known to history as the man responsible for the invasion and destruction of this entire country?"

"Go to blazes."

"Sooner or later you will help us, Mr. Roberts. Let us all hope it is sooner. If we are forced to persuade you more dramatically, it may damage your frail health."

"And how are you today, Mr. Renwick?" the Mongoose asked, turning and addressing the occupant of Cell #2.

Inside Cell #2 was a man the physical opposite of the sickly-appearing Long Tom. Lt. Col. John Renwick –Renny– was a giant of a man rivaling Doc Savage himself for sheer size. Further, he looked every bit the monstrosity of bone and muscle which he was. In contrast to Doc Savage's almost imperturbably bland demeanor, Renny almost always appeared to be in a bad mood of some type. Oddly, it was when he was at his happiest that he looked as if he was on his way to a funeral. Now, though, he looked like a furious prison inmate ready to take his captors apart bit by bit – and there was nothing illusory about that.

As the two Preusseners looked into his cell, he stood, glaring. Fists slammed into each other. The sound was not unlike that of cinderblocks colliding.

Even the Mongoose looked apprehensive as he contemplated what those hands could do wrapped around his neck. Still, he cleared his throat and spoke. "So what sort of weapon were you designing for the Poles, Mr. Renwick?" he asked casually.

A long moment passed as Renny's glare focused on the Mongoose's throat. His hands opened and closed meaningfully. "That's Colonel Renwick to you. And why don't you come on in here and I'll tell you everything you need to know?"

The Mongoose smirked. "For some reason I doubt your good intentions, _Colonel _Renwick. I suspect you may attempt some foolish heroics, which although possibly doing some significant damage to myself, would certainly have tragic consequences for you. Then your friend would be here all alone, and you wouldn't want that to happen to him, would you? Think how lonesome he would be, with you gone, and your friend Clark Savage never coming either."

Renny blinked at the reference to Doc. He knew that the Preussener was taunting him, and knew interrogation techniques and Doc Savage alike well enough not to think that Doc was already captured or dead, as hinted. He resisted rising to the bait. "Stay out there or come on in. I don't give a hang. But it'd almost be worth it to be able to rip your guts up through your neck, you yellow toad."

Fury swept the Mongoose's face for a moment. Regaining his composure, he continued: "Perhaps you would like to play a guessing game with me. If I guess what sort of weapon system you were designing, you will tell me, and I will let your friend go."

"Fat chance. And fat chance of anyone believing you'd let him go."

"You have my word as a Preussen officer."

"I wouldn't trust your word if you told me it was snowing on Christmas Day."

"Was it some sort of aeroplane?"

Renny started to open his mouth, then clamped it shut. He knew that saying nothing was the only safe course.

"Hmm, no, it wouldn't be an aeroplane. Possibly a new type of automatic rifle? Or anti-aircraft defense maybe. That would make sense. When Poland invades us, they will need overwhelming ground fire to neutralize our air defense capability."

Renny glared, and began slamming his fists together some more.

"Could it be some sort of anti-tank weapon? In a few months' time, Preussen armored divisions will be the greatest the world has ever seen."

The Mongoose observed the slightest flicker of a reaction in Renny, so subtle he probably could not even have put it into words, so subtle Renny himself would not have been aware of it: the way one eyelid twitched, the slight hesitation of those ham-sized fists crashing against each other, even the rhythm of his breathing – the Mongoose was certain he had uncovered something.

He rambled on for a bit to disguise his discovery. "Well, well, whatever it was doesn't matter now. You shall both be remaining as personal guests of the Premier for the near future. Any time you feel that you would like more comfortable quarters, you know how that can be done. A little conversation and some mutual understanding, and you will be living like the officers you are. Good day to you both, Colonel Renwick, Mr. – I beg your pardon, _Major_ Roberts."

In the Mongoose's office, he and the Field Marshal lit cigarettes. "I believe it is indeed some sort of anti-tank weapon they were working on. Not that that matters too greatly. Their work is _kaput_, and soon enough, Preussen will take action to neutralize the Polish aggressors. They may reveal more to us in time, knowingly or not. In America there is a craven little rodent who is telling us many things about Savage, and he too vowed not to speak." The Mongoose thought of Willard Marmelot. His only regret was that he was not there personally to keep him talkative.

At about this same time, Marmelot himself was alone, terrified, and in more pain than he ever dreamed his body could be responsible for. He was still strapped in to the torture chair in the sub-basement of the Preussen Consulate. He had no idea how long he had been there, whether it was night or day, or even what day it was. A dim light bulb burned constantly in front of him. When his tormentor arrived, another brighter light went on, but there was always this one, small bulb before his eyes. To the side, he could see a clock. The clock was stopped. It never ticked. At least Willard Marmelot thought it was stopped. Sometimes it seemed to show a slightly different time than what he remembered it showing before. It was stopped at fourteen minutes past seven. Except when it fourteen minutes past eight. Once it was fourteen minutes before seven, he thought. Occasionally, the tap in the sink would drip, and the drop splashing in the basin was loud in the small chamber. Willard began watching the tap, waiting for the drop. And waiting.

At about this same time –Willard Marmelot could not have told you when this was, not beyond the nearest month, and he might not have been certain of that, even– Willard had just watched the water droplet fall again. He had counted thirty-seven drops. A few times he had tried counting the seconds and minutes between drops, and thus have a very primitive water-clock, but he soon was convinced that the dripping was not regular. He began to wonder if there was some pattern to the irregularity after all, or if it was completely random.

The Mongoose was a master at tortures of the mind, as well as the flesh.

At about this same time –the sound of the water droplet splashing in the sink still echoing in his ears– Willard Marmelot thought he might be going crazy. He thought he had been hearing a furtive, scurrying sort of sound in the walls, like rats. Once, he even thought he heard voices. Then all the sounds had faded. But not disappeared.

Straining, Willard could still hear the occasional scratching sound, but almost infinitely remote. The sound of his own breathing masked the other noises, and he almost wished his heart would stop beating so that the noise of blood pumping in his ears would not distract him.

There was quiet.

There was a thudding sound, the sound of explosives detonating, that Willard felt through his whole body as much as he heard with his ears. The very air seemed to ring with the force of the blast. There were voices again, much clearer, shouting voices, and the sound of shattered cement and other building materials flying through the air, ricocheting, and settling to rest. The door of the torture cell flew open, and a dense fog of smoke and dust poured through. Then a face peeked through the fog, a face Willard knew quite well, somehow, although he had never seen it before. It was a face with skin tanned bronze, framed by long flowing hair which was a golden shade or two just fairer than bronze. It was the face of Doc Savage, had Doc been a beautiful woman . . .

"Willard Marmelot? My name's Pat Savage. My cousin Clark told me I should keep an eye on you."

Willard Marmelot stared at the vision in front of him, and marveled at her words. Her eyes, golden like Doc's, seemed to grow bigger and bigger in front of him, until Willard thought he might fall into them headfirst. As he fainted, his eyes noticed the clock. It was fourteen minutes before seven.

Half an hour later, Willard Marmelot sat with Pat Savage in the plush back office of the beauty salon which she operated. He gulped at a cup of coffee and pushed bits of finger sandwiches into his mouth. A few bandages adorned his body, but the torturers had been quite careful to cause only pain, not injury. Pat was explaining the rescue operation.

". . . and so, once we had the blueprints, we realized that a subway tunnel ran right by the lower basements. It was a bit of a gamble that we wouldn't blow you up as well, but it seemed that there were only two corners where a secret room could be, and as long we blasted through in the middle nobody would get hurt. Nobody to worry about anyway. Not at three in the morning."

Willard stared at Pat. Even after a nap and with food and coffee inside him now, she still seemed too perfect to be real. "What about Lucille? My wife?"

"She's safe. I met her at the Pennsylvania Station when she came back. She's at a safe place in Plainfield, New Jersey now and I'll be taking you over there too, as soon as you get a shower and fresh clothes." She jerked her thumb to a doorway. "All in there, waiting for you. But take your time."

Willard stuffed the last of a cucumber-and-cream-cheese finger sandwich into his mouth. "Oh my!" he exclaimed. "She'll be so worried!" He headed toward the shower room. "Thank you so much, Miss Savage. I – I can never repay you for this. But – thank you so very much!"

Pat Savage smiled to herself, and ate a finger sandwich.

Chapter X – Warsaw Concerto

The train carrying Clark Savage, Jr., Theodore Brooks, Andrew Mayfair, and Ladislava Vzynyk arrived in Warsaw only seventeen minutes late.

"That's quite good for the railroads here," observed Laddie. "Now we must find a carriage."

She did not mis-speak. Exiting onto the street, a few modern motor-cars rumbled leisurely back and forth. In front of the station stood a horse-drawn carriage.

The four entered the carriage. Laddie spoke briskly to the driver, and the horse clopped off on the cobblestones.

"And to think this is a special hijink in New York!" Ham whispered to Monk.

Laddie regarded them solemnly. "Please do not think my country is backward. It is only poor, and it is poor because history has made it a crossroad of war. The eastern countries invade the west, the southern countries invade the north, then the west invades the east. And always, Poland is the battlefield where everyone meet to fight. Every time Poland begins to prosper, invaders storm through and destroy all the progress of a generation. Or else the government decides we must spend much money to prevent war, and all the wealth of the country goes into war machines. It is a sad and terrible circular."

Ham and Monk looked at the floor of the carriage. Ham recalled Laddie's appreciation of the painting Monk had given her. Although they understood how fortunate history had made their own country, it was seldom they came face to face with the contrary situation.

About half an hour passed solemnly, and the carriage halted in front of an imposing marble building in the middle of Warsaw. "The Royal Science Academy," explained Laddie. They entered, and visited a rather large but plain office. "This is not where your men did most of their work, but was their central base. They sat and made blueprints here, but all work went to The Annex."

"The Annex?" queried Doc.

"It is a farmhouse outside the city. There are large stone barns and such for workshops. It does not look like a place where secret work is happen. I take you there today, but first I have business here. This floor, you see, is dedicated to military work. There is high security and a few people from Intelligence Division work here."

"Ladislava!" A new voice rang through the office. A young man with straw-colored hair and eyes like sapphires stood there. He radiated charm. Ham and Monk both felt their hearts drop to their feet.

"Rychyk!" Laddie ran to the man, and embraced him. Turning to her American friends, she said, "This is Rychyk Sobieski. My fiancée. He is Lieutenant with military intelligence."

Sobieski's face was alight as he embraced the girl, and showed delight as he turned to the Americans. "And these must be . . ." he began, with wonder in his voice.

"Yes, Rychyk, this is Mr. Savage, and his friends Colonel Mayfair and General Brooks."

"Oh, gentlemen, thank the Lord you are here!" He took their hands to shake, and gaped as if he could hardly believe their presence. "There are no words to tell you how delighted I am to have you with us." He prattled on for a minute regarding Poland's terrible danger and the wonderful work the two missing men had been doing.

"He speaks English good," Monk whispered to Ham, as an aside. "Better than Laddie. On her it's kinda cute though."

"He speaks English better than you, too," responded the lawyer.

Although the two had known already that Laddie was engaged, actually meeting the dashing young officer dashed their spirits even lower. Each had secretly hoped that he might somehow still compete with her suitor, but now they faced a veritable fairy-tale Prince Charming, neatly coiffed blond hair, elegant military uniform and all. Monk was too dejected even to attempt a retort to the lawyer's jibe.

Doc interrupted Rychyk's chatter and his companions' blue funk. "I believe it would be best if we were to visit this place you call The Annex at once. You have a car available?"

"Why yes, of course, I can summon one immediately. Ladika, you will come with, of course?"

Laddie hesitated. "I had thought to take them myself, after looking to my business. But – no, go on ahead, I must need to attend my responsibilities first."

Rychyk seemed troubled by her response, but then replied, "Naturally. We will have our time together later, dear Ladika." He smiled warmly. Then to Doc he said, "Allow me step into my office and phone for car. I will be right back in moments."

A brief time later, the four men stepped out onto the sidewalk before the Science Academy. It was past noon, and the air was dusty, dry and hot.

"Glad to have a fast car today, yes? The sun is giving us a warm day for once, isn't he?" observed Rychyk. The car was oversized in the style of a New York City taxicab, with two rear seats facing each other. The four settled into the back while a young man with corporal's stripes drove. Doc sat with Rychyk facing the rear, while Ham and Monk shared the seat looking forward. In a few minutes, the car had left the heart of the city and was driving through sparser streets. The passengers were silent, and it seemed a certain tension had settled over them.

Doc sniffed and rubbed his eyes. "Dusty even out here, isn't it?" he remarked casually. "It's making my eyes water." Reflexively, Ham and Monk glanced into the bronze face as Doc's fingers rubbed at his eyes. Doc Savage stared back at them, and blinked rapidly, then a few more times, very deliberately. Without appearing to be, his companions were instantly alert and attentive.

Doc's eyelids flickered out a brief message in Morse Code: "Do not resist."

Ham's fingers tightened on the head of his sword cane, mindful of Doc's instruction, and Monk bit his lower lip to stifle a grin. Somehow, the bronze man knew action was afoot!

Another few minutes brought the car to the end of the city and into the countryside. Rychyk turned to the driver and said, "Tell the guards to look in back. They will know me." He turned to Doc and said, "There is a roadblock ahead, as of all the roads into Warsaw now. But I am well known and there will be no delay."

Ham and Monk looked at Doc, but his face was impassive. Whatever the bronze man suspected was probably about to happen.

"Yup, there it is. That's a roadblock, all right," announced Monk as they approached. Three soldiers in Polish Army uniforms manned it, and flagged the car to a halt.

"State your business." One soldier addressed the driver in an almost casual manner. The driver jerked his thumb toward the back seat. "Permit me, please," stated the soldier, opening the back door. His eyes noted the four figures, and in an instant his weapon was up and aimed. At almost the same moment, the other rear door flew open and another of the soldiers had a rifle trained on the passengers. Monk's blood ran cold as he recognized the rifles as the same ones used on them in New York – the deadly machine guns carried by Preussen Gray Guard commandos. The first two soldiers squeezed themselves into the back seats. One pointed his weapon directly at Doc, the other, next to Rychyk, had his aimed straight at Ham's heart. The third soldier jabbed the driver in the ribs with the barrel of his weapon. "Move over," he ordered, taking the wheel. He turned the car down a narrow dirt road where two nondescript vans waited, jumped out, and pulled open the rear door. "Out."

"The three _Amerikaners_ in the gray one. The two _Polanders _in the brown one. Move. Move!"

Doc and his men were confined in the windowless cargo space of the vehicle. There was a residual scent of cabbage. Soon they felt it lumbering back up the dirt road and out onto pavement.

"How long a ride is it into Preussen, Doc?" asked Monk, resignedly.

"No less than four hours. Nearly six to the outskirts of Lindenplatz. I suggest we get some sleep so we may be alert and rested."

"What was the clue, Doc?" asked Ham.

"One simple word," replied Doc. "As you know, both Preussen and Polish are gender-inflected languages, while English generally is not. You will recall our friend referred to the Sun as 'he' just before we entered the car. The Polish word for Sun is neuter in gender, and so if he had been thinking in either Polish or English he ought have just said 'it.' But the Preussen word for Sun is masculine, and takes the pronoun 'he.' Despite his fluency in English and Polish, the man who calls himself Sobieski does his thinking in Preussen."

"Howlin' calamities!" whispered Monk. "And he's with Intelligence! Poland's got no more secrets than a burlesque dancer!"

"Fortunately, our brothers' work was strictly compartmentalized. What they were doing was known only to them and the workmen with them. Laddie informed me that when Renny and Long Tom were captured, the others were off-site, and were immediately taken into protective custody. Their work is secure."

"And you. You know, Doc," observed Ham.

"Just remember, we must not reveal that we know Sobieski is an imposter."

A look of worry and anger crossed Ham's face. "I wonder what happened to the real guards at that roadblock."

Monk whistled thoughtfully. "Who's gonna break the bad news to Laddie?" he wondered.

Doc silenced any more conversation as he began his daily ritual of mental and physical exercises: eyes closed, muscles straining against each other as his mind ran sets of mathematical equations, reconstructed in memory the events of the last 48 hours in precise detail, and other mental feats. Not the least of these was an awareness of every movement of the vehicle in which they were imprisoned: estimating speed by the sound of the tires on the road and the engine, every slowing down or speeding up, every turn, every curve. Doc Savage drew a map in his mind which would be nearly as accurate as any found in an atlas.

Ham and Monk looked at each other resignedly and put their boss' advice into practice: they closed their eyes and slept.

Chapter XI – In The Belly Of The Beast

Six hours passed, and all three knew they were deep inside Preussen territory. The vehicle rolled to a stop.

"Remember, let us appear compliant. We are here to learn as much as possible. We shall do that, and hopefully discover the location of our brothers before making our escape." Ham and Monk nodded silently.

The doors burst open. "Out."

Half a dozen Preussen soldiers stood, rifles aimed, as the three stepped out into cool evening.

"Move."

The prisoners were marched through three rings of barbed wire fences and stone walls topped with gun towers. Klieg lights illuminated the innermost ring of stone.

Inside, the three were stripped and subjected to every indignity of being searched, finally were given flimsy cotton uniforms to wear, and led to cells. A lieutenant flicked on some bright lights.

"A joyful family reunion, yes?" he smirked.

"Doc!" roared Renny. In the adjoining cell, Long Tom simply gaped as Doc Savage's mysterious trilling expressed his surprised pleasure.

"Silence!" barked the lieutenant. "You may wish to ponder your future. Now that we have all of you together, in the morning we will begin court-martial proceedings which will determine whether you will be executed as spies, or simply imprisoned for life as enemies of the New Empire. Good night, my friends."

The brighter lights snapped off, leaving only a single bulb to cast a feeble light in the cell block. A single guard stood on the far side of an observation grating, under which was a narrow slit to accommodate the presence of a rifle barrel.

"I hate to say it, Doc, but this don't look good," sighed Monk.

"Let's be careful," warned Doc, lapsing into their obscure Mayan tongue, thereby cautioning them to do the same. "Renny, Long Tom, have you discovered any weaknesses in the security which we might exploit?"

"Not a thing," rumbled Renny. "Even if we could pop these birdcages, that typewriter's got a clear line of fire for the whole block. The goon on the other side could plug us all and never even open the door."

"If only we could disable that light, at least he wouldn't be able to see us!" exclaimed Long Tom. "That might give us a chance!"

"And if only I was a bulldozer I could knock these walls right down!" retorted Monk. "We can't get to the light anyway, so unless it burns out tonight, we got one fat chance of even seeing another lunchtime!" Monk glanced into the cell opposite. "Doc? You OK?"

Doc Savage was in a peculiar contortion, looking as if he was trying to stick his entire hand down his throat. Finally he removed his hand and displayed a smallish white object.

"Of course, a false tooth!" remarked Ham.

Carefully, Doc pried the tooth into two pieces, revealing it be an empty shell – empty, except for something he carefully extracted. "A remarkable alloy," he stated quietly. A coil of thin wire sprung out straight in his hand, and a minute of probing with it released the lock of his cell door. The cells had stone walls, with only the barred doors allowing free communication. Doc tossed the wire like a dart across the narrow hallway to Monk, who likewise picked the lock. He in turn threw it diagonally to Ham, in the cell adjacent to Doc, and thence to Renny. Only Long Tom, at the end, struggled futilely.

"Sorry, Doc," he whispered. "I'll have to wait for the key."

"You shall be our bait, then," Doc murmured back. With no further ado, Doc shouted. "Guard! Guard! Come quickly! Major Roberts has injured himself!"

Long Tom took his cue flawlessly, and threw himself to the floor, evidently unconscious.

The guard raced in, unlocked the cell door, and knelt to examine the prisoner.

Long Tom rolled his head upward, and whispered, "I'm fine, pal. But you're not."

Renny's gigantic hand clasped the guard's neck from behind. "Better give me that key, soldier. And I sure hope you don't feel like bein' a hero tonight."

The guard's face paled as realized his situation, and whose hand clutched him. "Please. Please. I'm just a soldier. I've only been following orders."

"Here's another one, then. Gimme all them keys, and take our friend's place in there. Then tell us how we can get out of here." Renny shoved the guard into Tom's cell and turned the key in the lock.

The guard's face drained white. "No, don't. I beg of you. If I am found like this – and you gone – my life – " A look of dread gripped the guard's countenance. "I will be wishing for something as merciful as a firing squad," he gasped.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you something about choosing your friends wisely?" Renny sneered.

"I – I beg you – "

"Renny." Doc's voice was a calm whisper in the tense, frightened air of the cell block, and he opened up the cell door. "What is your name, soldier?" he asked in perfect Preussen.

"Gunther, sir."

Doc fixed the fearful soldier with his remarkable eyes. "You are in danger of your life now, aren't you?"

"I am."

"I wish to help you. I wish us to be friends now." Doc's voice, although calm, was strangely persuasive. "If we choose to be friends, I can promise you will be safe. And we will get you to another country where you will be safe for the rest of your life. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

"Very much, sir," the guard whispered. "More than anything."

"Good, then." Doc smiled reassuringly – an expression rarely seen. He stuck out his monstrous hand. "Shake, Gunther."

Wonderingly, Gunther put out his hand and grasped Doc's. He exhaled a huge sigh of relief, and a broad smile split his face. Even Doc's associates stared in wonder.

"Now is the hard part, my friends," Gunther whispered. "We must all keep our nerves tight. One wrong look and the game is up."

With a brief nod of reassurance to his men, Doc allowed Gunther to bind their wrists behind them.

"They're not too tight," Gunther assured them. "One good shake will release them. Now, line up ahead of me, two lines of three."

Such was Doc's confidence in his power over this man, he did not even suggest that Gunther empty his rifle of its deadly rounds before starting their march through the narrow corridors of this secret prison.

The procession passed one checkpoint without arousing any question or comment, then approached a second. "Sergeant!" Gunther stated boldly. "Open this door. These prisoners are being transported to Special Handling Area Two."

The sergeant eyed Gunther narrowly. "I should have been notified of this, Private. You have written orders?"

Gunther returned the sergeant's look boldly. "Did you hear me? I said these _Amerikaners_ are being taken for _special handling_. You know there are no written orders. My orders are directly from the _Kommandant._ There is the telephone, call him now if you have any questions."

The two regarded each coolly for a few tense moments. The sergeant's eyes flickered between the telephone and the clock on the wall. He then slid a notebook across his desk. "Sign them out, Private. You may note they are being taken for medical examination. Remember, the phrase 'Special Handling' does not officially exist."

"Of course, Sergeant." Gunther made the entry, stood, and stretched his arm. "Hail the Premier!" he barked. The sergeant returned the salute, opened the door, and the little procession moved towards its final hurdle. Two more soldiers of private rank flanked a great iron-bound wooden door, such as might be found in Medieval castles. The two gave the party a cursory glance, then opened the door. Cool night air flooded in.

"Move!" Gunther snapped. He and the Savage team stepped out into freedom, if not yet safety. "Now to the motor pool," he whispered. "We shall drive away as quickly as if our lives depended on it. And they do!"

This too Gunther handled smoothly, and minutes later the entire group was aboard a small truck and speeding into the night, Doc at the wheel. Gunther rolled down his window and pitched his rifle out into a small brook glittering under the moonlight.

"I am so happy to be rid of that awful thing!" he exclaimed.

The commandeered truck was equipped with a radio, and Doc made a few calls into it. A few hours later, the truck veered into the woods, where it was intercepted by a group of six men, all unshaven and in tattered clothing.

"Already," Doc informed the others, "there is an underground resistance movement here. Private, you may trust these men with your life, as we trusted you with ours. They will get you out of Preussen and into another country where you may live out your days, or until a civilized regime again has come to power here."

"Please, Professor Savage, don't call me 'Private.' I want nothing to do with uniforms or shooting again for the rest of my days." He took Doc's huge hand again between his own, and poured out his gratitude before departing.

As it happened, Gunther settled in Ireland, and for many years he regaled friends and strangers with his extra-ordinary tale. "I was responding to a report of a prisoner in my charge who had supposedly harmed himself," he would say, "shortly before the war broke out. Then the next thing I knew, this giant of bronze was speaking to me and calling me his friend! And – and it was if I had suddenly awoken from a bad dream! I looked at myself in that ugly uniform, and at that ugly prison where such terrible things happened, and I wondered how such a man as myself had come to be in such a place! I tell you, that man must have been some sort of angel in disguise." Gunther spent the war years, and those thereafter, raising potatoes, carrots, and chickens on a piece of ground in the West of Ireland, and he was known by all his neighbors as a devout and sincere churchgoer.

Meanwhile, Doc and his men raced through the night, avoiding roadblocks and other patrols, eager to escape the vast prison which called itself the New Empire. About dawn, they abandoned the truck in a disused quarry and traveled the last five miles afoot through deep woods to the Polish border.

It was about ten in the morning when the party slipped back over the border into Poland and safety. Amidst a field of waving wheat they found a rustic residence where, thanks to Doc's impressive presence and fluent Polish, the farmer was happy to carry them into town in his wagon. From town, it was only another three hours wait for a train to carry them back to Warsaw.

Chapter XII – The Farmhouse

That evening, Doc and all his men (save the absent Johnny) approached the Institute, where Doc inquired after Laddie.

"Doc," whispered Monk, "What do we tell her about her boyfriend?"

Doc paused a moment. "I believe it would be best that we do not allow her to know the full truth just yet. Let us tell her the barest truth: our motor was intercepted by Preussen commandos, we were taken in one vehicle, and he and the driver in another."

"Do you think the driver was with the goons, too?"

"It is, of course, possible," replied Doc. "But I observed nothing to suggest that."

Ham shook his head regretfully. "Poor chap isn't going to have much of a future in his position, is he? Especially if he figured out that Rychyk character was a spy."

Doc pressed his lips together. "Perhaps when our more immediate concerns are settled, we may consider some sort of rescue mission."

Renny now shook his head. "I dunno, Doc," he muttered, in a voice like distant thunder. "Once on the wrong side of that border is enough for me!"

"One thing is for sure, Doc," piped up Long Tom. "We need to finish up the work Renny and I have been doing, and I mean soon! We had some high and mighty mucky-mucks giving us the works there, and it sounded as if they meant to be starting a war any day now! And as it is, Poland wouldn't stand a chance! Not without our –"

Doc held up a hand to silence his friend as a group of researchers walked by. "You are quite right. As soon as we can reunite with Laddie, we should depart to The Annex to continue the project."

The men continued their wait until late in the afternoon, when Laddie reappeared. "I'm so terribly sorry to keep you wait!" she exclaimed, then put a hand to her mouth in bewilderment. "Colonel Renwick! Major Roberts! How – ?" Her eyes widened, and her face ran an astonishing range of emotions in moments as she took in the full implications of the two men's presence.

"We were captured by Preussen commandos _en route_ to The Annex," Doc began. "I and my men were placed in one vehicle, Lt. Sobieski and our driver were taken away in another. We were taken to the same prison where Renny and Long Tom were held, and from there we contrived to make our escape together." Doc spoke of this episode as if it had been no more than an excursion to the corner newspaper stand. "As for the driver and the Lieutenant, I'm afraid I have no knowledge of their whereabouts."

"Oh. Oh, this is very not good. Never has Preussen been so bold before! They must be very sure of themselves to try such a caper. Maybe they even are try to provoke us into rash response to give them the excuse for invade. Mr. Savage, I am intelligence officer and even a soldier, but I am very afraid."

"I believe," said Doc, "that the best thing we can do is to complete the work my men have started. It may be the only chance Poland has to stop Preussen aggression in its tracks, and perhaps give them second thoughts about any more ambitions they may have. Let us depart for The Annex at once."

"Yes, yes of course. I will have a platoon scout on ahead this time to make sure there are no ambushers." Laddie shook her head woefully. "I am stupid! I should have done before. Please forgive me, Mr. Savage."

"On the contrary," replied Doc mildly. "I suspected such an ambush, and allowing ourselves to be captured was the only chance we had of rescuing our friends."

"Oh! Oh, but poor Rychyk!"

Doc's men surreptitiously exchanged some guilty glances at the mention of the traitorous Lieutenant.

Laddie wiped at an eye, then assumed a steely resolve. "Please. Make yourselves comfortable. I will arrange an armored transport to take you to The Annex, and will have scouts going ahead. Two hours at most tops, and you will be on your way. There is large bedrooms at the farmhouse for all of you, and cooking and cleaning staff are still there. You may be there by midnight, and can resume work in morning. In meanwhile, I must also start operation to find Rych—Lt. Sobieski."

Chapter XIII – The Mongoose Breaks A Sweat

"The news is not good, Major." Field Marshall Kreisler sat casually at his desk, very casually, with his feet up on an ottoman. The man code-named Mongoose stood at attention before him. The Mongoose felt sweat starting to bead at the back of his neck.

"From under your very nose, Major. From this very prison. What shall be next? That the Savage gang have assassinated the Premier himself?"

"Of course not, sir," replied the Mongoose, working hard to keep his voice steady. "These Americans are not some kind of supermen. It is clear to me that Private Schneem already had disloyal tendencies, and these criminals convinced him to aid them. The logbooks prove that, sir. I am sure they fled Preussen territory as fast as they were able."

"And who was responsible for security at this facility, to see that only the most loyal and dedicated soldiers of the New Empire even knew of this place?"

The Mongoose swallowed hard. After a moment, he sputtered out, "The responsibility was mine, Field Marshall." He felt a droplet trickle down his back. This interview was already reminding him of one he had himself presided over in the basement of the American Consulate.

Now, Kreisler alluded to that very place. "And have you heard the news from New York?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your little mouse – what was his name? Ah, yes. Marmelot. Gone! Right from the Consulate's sub-chambers! Without a clue as to who might have been behind it. Although it is almost certain that somehow the Savage gang was involved. If it is any comfort to you, Major, I have not dared to brief the Premier on the full details of that incident."

"I understand, sir."

"Your man there, Lt. Tenzen, has already assumed full responsibility for that debacle." Kreisler smirked cruelly. "A court-martial returned him his Last Round two nights ago."

The Mongoose flinched.

"Now, Major, you and I, at the levels we work in, we have no need to indulge in such ritualistic mummery. All that sort of thing is to impress the ignorant and make them feel much more important than they merit. But that is two men in as few days whom you vouched for and who proved unreliable. I will not ask you for your own Last Round, but you may rest assured, you are running short on chances. Fortunately for you, your great talents are virtually irreplaceable, and your services are still much required. Be warned, though. Soon – very soon – events will take place which will render much of your value to the New Empire obsolete. And if I have not regained the confidence in you which I once had – well, perhaps you will still live to serve Empire and Premier, but as cook in a re-education camp."

Kreisler's mouth twisted up at one corner in a sickly smile. "Or as a medical research assistant."

At this, the Mongoose paled. Even he had heard only the barest, horrified whispers of rumors trickling out from the camps regarding what passed under the name of "medical research," but he knew that whatever grotesque stories circulated at large surely paled next to whatever the full truth might be. "I understand, Field Marshall."

"I'm not sure you do, Major." Kreisler's twisted smile broke large over his face. "But it is enough."

The Mongoose began breathing a bit more freely.

"Your top priority right now must be to finally determine what sort of weapon the Savage men were building! Certain plans of the High Command absolutely depend on the most complete intelligence possible. Succeed in this, and you will have immediate promotion – possibly even straight to general. That is how much Lindenplatz is counting on you. And any number of decorations, including the Golden Cross, First Class, and the Premier's Ribbon." Absentmindedly, Kreisler trailed his fingers over his own Ribbon.

"In that case, Field Marshall, I must depart immediately, or my cover identities may be put at risk. By your leave, sir?"

"Dismissed, Major." Field Marshall Kreisler only then stood, and raised his arm in salute.

"Hail the Premier!" the two men shouted.

Chapter XIV – Thunderwalkers

Doc's men were up before dawn in the cool of a late August morning, but they knew Doc himself had already been awake for at least two hours, engaged in the strict mental and physical disciplines which had made of him such a wonder. They ate quickly in the farmhouse's spacious kitchen – a traditional Polish breakfast featuring sausage, cheese, and bread. Doc did not join them – they often wondered if he ate at all!

"Come on," rumbled Renny. "You mugs aren't going to believe this! Even Doc himself doesn't know what all Long Tom and I have cooked up here."

"It was a mighty challenge," observed Long Tom. "Since we know that when Preussen invades, it will be with an overwhelming armor force."

"Has it indeed come to be when, and not if?" inquired Ham.

"It sure looks like it. That's what Doc told us to expect in the last telegram we had from him before the goons grabbed us."

"Yes," announced Doc, appearing suddenly. "I'm afraid it is all but certain Preussen intends to invade within months, if not sooner. There was news on the radio today that the Preussen ambassador has lodged formal protests with the Polish government regarding violations of the border."

"They talking about us?" queried Monk.

One of his rare smiles touched Doc's lips. "Even had we not, I am certain that Preussen would have made such allegations in any case. They have been printing the most unlikely reports in their own newspapers for more than a month."

"So what about whatever this is you two have been working on?" pressed Ham.

Long Tom replied, "Well, a Preussen armor platoon generally consists of six or seven light tanks and two or three heavy tanks, along with some light-armor support vehicles. It is the tanks of course which are the worry. An early study we performed with the government essentially told us that given the comparative manpower and industrial resources available to the armed forces of the two countries, two or three Polish soldiers would have to destroy every tank platoon to be assured of a successful defense."

"That's impossible!" cried Monk.

"Perhaps not," opined Doc. "Renny, Long Tom, let us all see what you have designed to make such a feat possible."

The entire group stepped outside into dawn's first light. A barn approximately 30 feet tall at its center stood a short walk from the house.

"The goons grabbed us from our office in the house," remembered Renny. "There were only a half dozen, and the guards around the barn at least made sure they didn't get a look inside. They dropped a couple of them to make sure they got that message loud and clear."

As Doc's keen eyes scanned the surroundings, he noted not only the soldiers visibly on duty, but a dozen haystacks, wagons, and unobtrusive windows of the barn which hid as many more.

"Go on, Tom, bring her on out," suggested Renny. "I'll brief the rest when they can see her better."

Long Tom trotted on in a small side door of the barn, and a minute later the others heard the sound of heavy Diesel engines roaring to life, and beneath the roaring, the whine of multiple gyroscopes. Machinery moved, unseen, and as if that was the signal, workmen drew the massive barn doors apart, revealing an aperture twenty feet wide and nearly as tall as the barn itself.

The ground shook as a sound like monstrous footsteps reverberated in the morning air. There were a half-dozen such steps and what produced them stood before the barn.

The men stood, open-mouthed, Doc alone retaining an impassive face, but the sound of his peculiar trilling raced wildly up and down the scales. What stood before them was near twenty-five feet tall, balancing on two jointed legs. Small automatic movements governed by the gyroscopes kept it upright. The upper half was thoroughly astonishing and fearsome. A large central torso unit was highlighted with a cockpit which seemed to be modeled on the glass nose of a bomber. Arms jutted from the sides, and great square boxes sat atop where shoulders would be. Weapons of all sorts bristled from the thing. The torso turned toward Doc and the rest, and they could see Long Tom seated inside, waving at them.

The whole machine took two steps, turning and moving closer to the men. Ham and Monk instinctively took a step backward.

"It's – it's like a giant mechanical knight in armor, or some such," murmured Ham.

"Ain't she a beauty?" grinned Renny. "Like I say, we asked ourselves, what would it take for just one or two men to take on a tank platoon? We realized it wasn't how many men so much as what kind of ordnance they handle at once. See those boxes on her shoulders? See all the little squares, ranged ten by ten? That's a hundred armor-piercing high explosive rockets, each side. The right arm ends i inch Howitzer barrel, and the left has a bank of four .303 machine guns and a pair of twenty millimeter cannon, same as the English put on their Spitfires."

Ham was staring up in fascination. "Just astounding!" he repeated over and over, for once in his eloquent life at a loss for words.

"Not only can that take out a tank platoon, but when it's done with 'em, that left arm can do double duty as antiaircraft." Renny waved to Long Tom and mimed shooting into the sky. Faster than might be expected, the arm swung up to the sky, and the torso swiveled back and forth to simulate air defense. "Or to take out light ground units too, of course," finished Renny.

"What speed have you achieved without compromising stability?" asked Doc.

"She'll do about 35 or 40 miles per hour on the flat, Doc. But our concern isn't straightaway as much as pulling tight turns. We're gonna need to pull some pretty fancy footwork to get some good shots away without taking too much return fire. Unless the Preussens have some new gimmick we don't know about yet, we'll be able to move faster than a tank turret can follow. And their heavy armor is pretty sluggish on maneuverability overall."

"What do you call this monster?" asked Monk.

"Well," replied Renny, "the Polish Army's official code name for this project was Operation Timberwolf, and I think official circles have started calling these things 'Timberwolves.' But our chums around here call them Thunderwalkers."

Ham's eyebrows lifted skyward. "You are speaking in the plural already. How many of these do you have?"

"Just three. Not enough by a long shot, not yet, but it's a start, and now that we have the design and ordnance specifications settled, the secret factory in the White Forest to the east of Warsaw can start turning out, maybe, two a day. Depending on raw materials."

Monk whistled. "See three of these monsters walking around, and I'd think just about anybody would be ready to quit the fightin'."

"Unfortunately, Monk, it will take many more of these for Poland to effectively defend herself from a Preussen invasion. Probably more than can be built in time. And such is human nature that there is little which will deter an aggressor thirsting for battle." Doc spoke softly, and a hint of sadness shaded his voice.

Renny and Long Tom understood that Doc had mixed feelings upon their disclosure that they intended to embark on a military project. As any good man, he detested war, but as any wise man, he understood that sometimes it was inevitable, and sometimes even the horrors of war were preferable to the alternative. Having had a small taste of the medicine that the Preussen physician intended to feed to Poland, and likely the rest of the continent, Doc and his men understood that gentle submission would indeed be a far worse fate.

"What about France and Britain?" blustered Monk. "They're all friends with Poland. Won't they help?"

"It seems that both nations recall the sting of the Great War too sharply to wish to commit themselves to a war on another's behalf. I fear that they will not stand up to Preussen armies until they are themselves threatened, and that by then it will be too late, for Poland and for them too."

Ham spoke softly. "You remember, brothers, upon the outbreak of the Great War, it was said that the lights were going out all over Europe." He paused dramatically. "I have the feeling that they are dimming again even as we stand here."

"Well, Doc?" asked Renny. "Which of you is going to be the third Timberwolf pilot?"

"Let me, Doc," Monk responded instantly. "You shouldn't be in one of them things because we want you as commander, somewhere you can see the action and tell us what to do. And Ham ain't no good because these things can't talk an enemy to death."

"Agreed," concurred Doc, after a moment. "But I wish to test one in the event one of you is injured or otherwise unable to perform as pilot, if necessary."

"Hey, Doc," interjected Monk. "Did we really just agree we're gonna fight a Preussen tank invasion?"

Doc gazed thoughtfully at the horizon and his trill denoted profound thoughtfulness and regret. Finally he spoke softly. "Even we cannot stand against the army of an entire nation. However, we will do what we can. If we can at least deter the aggressors and let them see there is more here than meets the eye, it may delay them long enough for the civilized nations to do something about it."

"Write me in as pilot for that fourth Timberwolf as soon as she's ready," spoke Ham, grimly.

A time later, Renny helped Monk into the pilot's seat of the third battle machine, took his own, and called instructions over the radio. "The throttle is the single stick. Push that forward just a notch. You're already facing the door, so just walk straight on out. The gyros will keep you upright, so don't worry if it feels like you're falling forward. It'll feel like all the time until you get used to it."

Slowly the Timberwolf lurched out the door. "What a contraption!" Monk called, stopping the machine.

"Now give her that same first notch of throttle, and use the pedal rocker to turn to your right," ordered Renny. "Just keep your feet strapped into that, and push whichever way you want to turn."

Monk walked his Timberwolf a score of feet, zigzagging back and forth.

"Now try it again, but turning the torso at the same time. See that hilltop in the distance? Start walking straight, then turn left, but keep your upper body and weapons systems turned toward it. Just use what looks like the regular steering wheel."

After a few times back and forth, Monk had the system down reasonably well.

"Just a dry run over the weapons systems. Now careful. Your rockets are loaded, but not armed. That will be done before combat, by one of our technicians, when you're ready to deploy. Your shoulder rockets are your main system. You'll see targeting cut into the glass before you. The lower ring is 50 yards, the upper one 100. Throw the main switch in the middle of the wheel to activate the system. The red buttons by your thumbs fire them. Aside from choosing left or right, firing is automatic and sequential, so just keep hitting the button and they'll keep launching."

Monk experimentally clicked the buttons, feeling the response of them. "Gotcha," he responded.

"Your torso will cant up and down a bit when you target, but there will be a minimum range of about 40 or 50 feet. Closer than that and you'll just be shooting over your target. That's when you'll want your artillery. Pull back on the wheel and get a feel for your torso movement."

There was humming and grinding as the chemist complied, then more as he tried turning and canting simultaneously.

"Look by your feet now," Renny directed. "You'll see your emergency fire only. A red glass cover, one by each foot, up above the pedals. You'll have to kick hard to break them, but when you do, just press that mushroom button underneath and it'll turn loose every rocket you have left on that side. For last ditch defense only, or if you're on fire and want to jettison all that so it doesn't blow you up before you can bail out."

"Good idea," commented Monk.

"Now try your arms. You probably won't want to try firing more than one at a time, since you'll still want a hand on the wheel to track your target."

The arm controls were simple handles like stirrups. As Monk pulled back on one, the arm lifted, he pushed and it lowered.

"Go ahead and test the triggers," suggested Renny. "None of those are loaded. The left thumb trigger on top of the handle fires the cannons, the trigger under your fingers fires the machine guns. The right has only one, but you'll find it's a harder pull. You can use those shells for armored targets too close in for the rockets."

After an hour stalking about The Annex, Monk was comfortable in his machine. He and Renny, who had paced him in his own Timberwolf, opened the cockpits and climbed down the stubby steel projections which served as ladders.

"Doc, Ham?" asked Renny. "You two want to have a go at them now?" The two nodded, and they in turn spent time under Long Tom's tutelage moving the great war machines about the pastoral scene.

Renny watched the spectacle and sighed. "I'm afraid it would take dozens of those to stand up to them goons. But we'll do what we can."

Monk too sighed. Over the years, their little team had taken on enemies who had grossly outweighed them in numbers and firepower, and triumphed against seemingly impossible odds. But even Doc himself had admitted they could do little against an entire army. "I'd just hate to run out on a good fight," he murmured. "It would feel like quittin'."

The two watched in a dismal silence as the rest steered the Timberwolves around the farmyard. Soon, the soft ground was trampled into mud, and Long Tom stopped the exercises before the machines got stuck in a trap of their own making.

"How long can those monsters run?" asked Monk suddenly.

"Four hours or so. Depends how much movin' around you do. That's by calculation. We never got 'em out for full trials. This is the closest we've come. It's hard to judge because part of Doc's solution, we used four smaller Diesel engines instead of one big one. The way we shared out the gyros. But they all run off the same 75 gallon fuel tank."

With all three machines hangared in the barn, Doc's men watched as their technical crews went over them carefully, from polishing up boltheads to re-checking electrical connections, oil levels, and bearings. The work was done in remarkably short minutes, with refueling the last stage. Doc stepped over and spoke to the sergeant in charge of the crew. The man's eyes widened, but he nodded obediently.

"What was that, Doc?" inquired Ham.

For a moment, it seemed Doc was going to follow his sometimes-irksome habit of not responding, but then he stopped and turned to face his men. "I have ordered that the machines be kept at High Alert. That means fuel tanks full, rocket launchers armed, and other weapons loaded and ready."

"You think it can be any day now?" asked Long Tom. "I've had the same feeling myself. I sure wish we could get that fourth machine in from the White Forest."

"We may," observed Doc, calmly. "That is one reason we shall stay together here, to receive it and be ready to use it, when necessary."

Chapter XV – Stormclouds Over Warsaw

Doc's men awoke in the predawn hours to the excited chatter of Polish radio. As one, they raced to the kitchen of the farmhouse to find Doc and a couple of their Polish assistants tuned to the Warsaw station. The news they heard was astonishing and unbelievable.

"Warsaw awoke at 4 o'clock this morning to air raid sirens!" repeated the announcer. "Civilians were evacuated to shelters safely and without incident, and Royal Air Corps fighters took to the skies in minutes! But no enemy aircraft were to be found, and thanks be to the Lord, no bombs are known to have fallen. But many citizens who were about swear that they saw the most unbelievable visions in the sky! It is beyond question that there were rumblings and flashes as of a lightning storm, and official sources are dismissing the entire event as a mistaken reaction to simple weather. Early reports of angels and other frightening visions seen in the skies over Warsaw have now been written off as the products of overworked imaginations. The War Ministry has commended the many alert citizens and soldiers alike who first reported these events for their watchfulness, but cautions all, that in these dark and tense times, we must not let our imaginations get the better of us! In related news, Army officials report that a drill simulating the evacuation of the Palace was held concurrent with these startling events, but that His Majesty and the Royal Family remain safe and within the walls of . . ."

The announcer carried on with his broadcast, assuring early-morning listeners that all was well, that war neither in Heaven nor on Earth had broken out, and that weather for all crops was forecast to be favorable as August wound down into September.

Doc switched off the radio, but the Polish natives present looked about curiously as a strange music seemed to continue after the instrument went dark and silent. Chattering between themselves, they left the kitchen to assume their daily duties.

"Most curious," observed Doc, ambiguously. "Did all of you understand that?"

His men nodded, only Monk slightly hesitant. "They was seeing angels this morning, is that it?"

Long Tom quoted softly: "'And there was a great battle in heaven, Michael and his angels fought with the dragon: and the dragon fought, and his angels.'"

Doc stood thoughtfully another moment. "As the announcer suggests, it is possibly some sort of hysteria, by which the devout people of Poland observed simple meteorological phenomena and interpreted it as an evil portent of the days which are undoubtedly to come, although their enemy will most likely come from the west than from above."

"Don't forget," Renny reminded the others, "it wasn't even a year ago that a whole lot of Americans got scared out of their wits by a radio show. There were people running around in the streets with shotguns looking for Martian invaders."

"Renny is right," observed Ham. "All of us recall from the Great War that both sides employed many tricks meant to wear down the enemy by deceiving the mind. And as an attorney I can testify that in the combat of the courtroom, not only is winning the minds of the jury of paramount importance, but shaking an adverse witness' faith in his own testimony can be crucial to achieving victory."

"No kiddin'!" guffawed Monk, suddenly. "I remember a lieutenant in my command, he ordered up a coupla crates of boots, they musta been about size 15, they woulda been big on Renny! Then he took any size tags off 'em, had the crates stenciled with "US Army Boots, Size Medium" and contrived to have them dropped where the Huns would find them. Imagine the soldiers opening up one of them crates and thinking, 'For Americans, these are only medium!'?"

The others grinned at the thought, all but Doc. "On the other hand, the day is coming, and is perhaps already here, when such warfare of the mind will play almost as important a role as actual combat at arms. Perhaps this was no hysterical reaction to a simple thunderstorm at all. Brothers, I shall return to Warsaw today, alone. I hope to delve into this mystery. You, stay here, and be ready with the Timberwolves. I will see you again soon."

Stepping into a shadowed hallway, Doc vanished from his friends' sight as neatly as if by sorcery.

"Well, Doc is surely the one to understand getting the best of somebody by tinkering around in his head!" rumbled Renny. "I couldn't even count the thugs he's bamboozled just by making them think they'd already beaten him!"

"Renny," asked Monk, "is there plenty of fuel around for those Timberwolves? Maybe we should all take a little time today and practice some more. Maybe even some live fire exercise."

Renny shook his head thoughtfully. "We're pretty scarce, friend. Maybe a half hour or so walking about, but no ammo. Not if we hope to equip a fourth."

That much they did, spent the rest of their time enjoying Polish hospitality, and trying to keep their nerves from singing too high a note.

Meanwhile Doc Savage himself spent the day in Warsaw, interviewing men and women, adults, children, and dotards alike as to the remarkable events of the morning. One elderly woman led him to the top of her apartment building, where she swore stardust had fallen from the troubled sky.

She pointed to the glimmering powder which remained underfoot, and Doc carefully swept a bit of it into an envelope. As he walked the city, Doc noticed a few places which were similarly graced with an almost-unnoticeable coating of the powder, and which was dispersing rapidly in the morning breeze.

He returned to the Institute, asked for tests to be run, and had results back in quick hours.

There are not many men in the world who could walk onto an air base of a foreign nation and ask for the use of the swiftest fighter/interceptor which that nation has at its disposal. Doc Savage was one of those men. After examining the ship he was assigned, he composed himself to rest, and awaited darkness – and another air raid warning.

He was not disappointed. At about 3 a.m., sirens began wailing and searchlights stabbed at the cloudy sky. The low cover would handily conceal any enemy craft. Doc raced to his ship and in moments was above the clouds. Bright stars and a full moon illuminated the tops of the clouds below. Suddenly, to the west, Doc spotted his quarry! Two narrow shapes hurtled away from him, back toward the Polish border and the New Empire beyond. He pressed his own ship to the maximum, but the fleeing craft were too swift, and they disappeared from his keen sight.

Nonetheless, radio chatter in Doc's ear continued its baffled, almost panicked, reports. He dove his ship below the clouds, where others of Poland's Air Corp swept the skies. Confirming the most extraordinary of previous stories, horrific scenes appeared in the air, scenes of battle, scenes of death, and one theme predominating – the Polish flag yielding to the might of the Jagged Cross.

Doc swooped his craft through the heart of one of the images, then returned to prowl the clouds. After a brief time, his unconscious trill noted satisfaction at a mystery solved – and knowledge of even greater danger.

He returned to The Annex before lunchtime, having briefed the Polish High Command of his findings, and now shared with his men what he had discovered in the Warsaw skies.

"There were two, or possibly more, ordinary aircraft," he stated, "which had no other function than to fly in, alert ground defense forces, and be sure that Warsaw was in a state of panic. They then returned quickly whence they came. Only then did the real assault take place, and as we surmised, it was an assault on the minds and hearts. A proper airship, what Preusseners call a _zeppelin_, was stationed within the clouds themselves."

"But what was it up to, Doc?" inquired Monk excitedly.

"It was dropping a quantity of aluminium dust into the air. A small quantity, which ought to have dispersed and not collected on the ground in amounts to excite notice. In one or two places, perhaps more was released than should have been, and so it did attract attention, particularly on the rooftop of an apartment building owned by one Mrs. Kubelski. Suspended in the air, the powder formed a temporary, but effective, projection screen against which the airship was able to project the camera images which have so disturbed the Poles."

"Diabolical!" exclaimed Ham. "Why, they've been softening up the population to think that military defeat is not only inevitable, but some sort of Heavenly decree as well!"

"Precisely," agreed Doc. "And I have advised Polish Air Command that if these images appear again, to simply have their fighters fire into the clouds to discourage the airship."

"Hope you told them to use incendiary rounds!" concurred Renny.

Chapter XVI – September 1, 1939

"Come quickly!"

Doc's voice rang through the pre-dawn darkness of the farmhouse, and in a moment his men stood by his side. He stood by a radio set, headphones to his ears. This was not the ordinary radio set, but a special unit used by himself and his associates alone. There was another like it at a certain secret factory hidden away in the White Forest to the east of Warsaw.

Doc Savage's face was grim. His men's hearts sank, as they knew that rarely did Doc allow himself to appear so discouraged. He continued listening to the headpiece intently.

"There will be no fourth Timberwolf from the White Forest, brothers," Doc said softly. "The factory and all within has just been demolished to keep it from falling into enemy hands."

His men looked bewildered. "How has Preussen invaded from the east?" asked Long Tom.

"She has not. Carpathia has."

"_What?"_ exclaimed his men together.

"Carpathia is a – a – nothin' place!" exclaimed Monk. "They don't have an army big enough to take Manhattan!"

"_Didn't_," corrected Doc. "They seem to be armed with some very advanced ordnance – Preussen in origin. And if these reports are correct, Preussen Foreign Minister Van Riverhoof announced, at 3 a.m., local European time, a new treaty of alliance and friendship between Preussen and Carpathia."

Ham paled. "But that would mean . . ."

Doc nodded. "Preussen Grey Guard, both Commando and Shock Troops, as well as regular army forces, have crossed the western Polish border, and also the southern, by way of Carpathia. They already have the cities of Krakow and Wroclaw, and command a line between. In the east, it seems there is already an intense battle with Carpathian troops around the city of Lublin."

"That's not much more than a two hour drive from here, Doc," noted Renny, grimly.

"Those Preussen head lice are going to let the Carpathians soften up Warsaw for them, then come in to finish up the job," growled Renny.

"We all know why we came here," said Doc, "and we all knew what this might mean. But as I stated before, we are not an army, and can do little against the army of an entire nation, Preussen or Carpathian. Renny, Long Tom, you have trained some of these Poles in the use of your Timberwolves. By any proper military protocol, it is our duty to turn those instruments of war over to the military forces of the nation for whom we have worked. We have no duty to jeopardize our own lives by going to battle in them, and have no personal honor at risk by turning them over and departing this war zone. Brothers? What say you?"

"Nuts!" spat Long Tom.

Chapter XVII – Showdown At Okywyczie

Within the hour, Doc Savage had completed some urgent communications, both over the radios and via a secure telephone line to High Command in Warsaw.

"We shall convoy west," announced Doc. "The army is confident it can defend against the Carpathians from the east. Our Timberwolves are ready, and we have two waypoints for refueling between here and where we may expect to meet the Preussen invaders. Renny, Long Tom, Monk – get to your Timberwolves. Ham, you and I, with a small detachment of our Polish Army aides, will follow in supply trucks. We will have a small amount of ammunition and fuel with us. There is fuel enough for us to make the coast,if we must retreat."

The three Timberwolf pilots ran off to the barn.

"Don't you mean 'when,' Doc?" asked Ham.

Doc pursed his lips grimly. "There is still a chance we may be able to stop them," was the terse reply. "But – yes. We will not spend our lives futilely."

"If only there was another choice besides this ruddy war!" Ham exclaimed.

"There is always a choice," Doc observed. "There is a choice between fighting and submitting to tyranny. War is one of the most evil devices with which mankind has chosen to plague itself. The Great War, as we all know personally, was perhaps the greatest evil we will see in our lives. But sometimes – there are greater evils even than war. And we saw a small part of that, also."

Ham nodded sorrowfully.

Quickly, radios began crackling between the vehicles of the convoy, trucks and Timberwolves.

"Let's get going!" howled Monk. "This thing is itchin' for action!"

The bizarre assortment set off along the road, bypassing to the south of Warsaw proper and headed for Lodz.

"Intelligence suggests that although Krakow would provide a more direct route to Warsaw as the crow flies," Doc informed his men, "the roads from Wroclaw are more modern and would provide a better route for a motorized invader. Too, the city of Lodz is an important strategic objective and is directly in that line of march. Therefore, we shall follow the main roads to Lodz and beyond, meet the attackers, and do what we can before we must . . . leave the Polish War to the Polish."

One of the light trucks sped ahead to reconnoiter, scouting for signs of the enemy and for the supply depots prepared for them. After what seemed many, many hours, the driver of the scout truck fired a red Very signal into the air.

"Contact," stated Doc evenly over the radio. "My brothers," to the men in the Timberwolves, "do what you can. But when I order you to retreat – do not hesitate."

"Roger that, Doc," came the replies.

"We are at a small village named Okywyczie," Doc informed the men, "just west of Lodz. Polish army regulars are dug in around the perimeter of the city. We can expect some light air support, but Poland's air power is very limited. We will likely be relying on your machines for air defense. Reports coming in state that Preussen air assaults have been extremely heavy and effective. They seem to be relying on light, low-altitude level bombers and medium dive bombers. Renny, make your first priority air defense," ordered Doc.

"You got it, Doc," came the growling reply.

There was little noise as the first Preussen forces rolled into view. Tanks rolled across the plain encountering no resistance. Behind the tanks were more than a dozen armored troop carriers. The three Timberwolves had taken partial shelter behind a low ridge.

"Looks like three of those tanks platoons, Doc," Long Tom advised. "One for each of us."

"Men, you know what must be done. It is time to do it. Open fire at will."

Monk pushed his throttles and stepped around the end of ridge. "Take out the heavy armor first!" he bawled over the radio.

A single rocket seared away from a launcher, but exploded in the ground. "Shoot!" griped the chemist. "I led him too much!" Now four more projectiles screamed away and caught their target right in the treads. The tank stopped, but the turret swung ominously toward Monk and his machine. "I was tryin' to be nice, you stinkin' goon!" Four more rockets roared to the tank, and this time left its turret a smoking wreckage.

Monk howled a victory cry over the airwaves. "One down. I'm a Thunderwalker!"

"Two!" called Long Tom.

"Renny," called Doc, "Get behind them and try to disable the troop carriers with your light guns. We may be able to force a retreat on them, or at least halt their advance, if their ground troops cannot continue with the armor."

"Gotcha."

The Timberwolf strode swiftly past the mass of grinding armor, and Renny began a long, striding course behind the enemy. He turned his torso easily, keeping on the move, following the troop carriers with the deadly sweep of his machine's left arm. The first few he disabled with wicked punches from the 20mm cannon, shattering tires and tracks. Then Gray Guard soldiers began spilling out of the vehicles, setting up machine gun emplacements or simply opening fire with their automatics.

"Sorry, Doc," Renny murmured to himself. "But these goons play rough." He squeezed the trigger which cut loose with the four .303 guns, and wave upon wave of iron-gray uniforms fell to the ground.

"No more Mr. Nice Guy," he grumbled, and the next troop carrier to come under his sights, he first ruined the tracks, then directed a withering stream of lead across the flimsy wood-and-canvas covering of its passenger deck.

Suddenly his torso shook violently once, then a second time, and some of the thick glass of the canopy spiderwebbed. "Guess someone noticed me," Renny cracked to himself. Turning, he spotted two light tanks which had stopped and turned to face their guns at him. These were rather primitive designs, without a proper turret. The cannon had a full range of vertical motion and some lateral to allow for precise aiming, but otherwise the entire vehicle had to be turned toward its target.

"I'm trying out the Howitzer on a couple of them light Jaguars!" Renny announced to the others, calling the tanks by their military designation. He brought one under his sights, felt for the trigger, and pulled. A mighty _whoompf_ shook the Timberwolf, and the torso rocked about with the recoil.

Renny listened carefully as the feed mechanism dropped another shell into place, watched for the green light.

"Hey, Doc, and you others! It would be nice to do something about the Howitzer recoil. I'm reloaded but still haven't steadied up from the first shot. That could be dangerous. Monk, Long Tom, be sure to aim a little to the left, since you're gonna kick hard to the right when it lets go. Almost missed that one goon completely. All right, steady now – "

Another _whoompf_ shook Renny's machine, and the second shell destroyed the Jaguar in spectacular fashion. "Musta hit his magazine," mused Renny. "Let's try these now," and thumbed a rocket from each shoulder into the second Jaguar. Both hit their mark squarely, and that machine was out of operation. "So we're Thunderwalkers now, Monk?" he called over the radio. "I think I like that! Now back to those troop trucks."

The rest of the armor was busily engaged with Long Tom and Monk. The tanks were performing remarkably well, considering that they were engaging a foe which was intimidating just to behold and which they had never before seen, or even imagined. Four of the heavy tanks, called Panthers, were now but smoking steel, along with five of the Jaguars, and two of the medium Leopards.

"Renny!" called Doc. "Dive bombers, approaching from the south. Take them."

"Roger!" Renny extracted his Timberwolf from the tangle of broken armor and bodies, and started running to the south, scanning the sky. "I see them!" Four bent-wing dive bombers, painted in black, were cruising in, looking like a flock of hungry buzzards.

Renny stood tensely, watching the warbirds lining up their attack. It looked as if one was aiming directly at him. He pulled his left arm high, and let off three quick bursts of combined machine gun and cannon fire. It seemed as if debris flew from the wings, but the aircraft's attack dive didn't falter. Renny clutched at the triggers again. There was a short, furious burst – and nothing.

"Doc!" bawled Renny into his microphone. "I'm dry! No more light ammo!"

"Long Tom, take over anti-aircraft defense. Renny, Monk, you have them pincered between you. Pick your targets and work carefully."

Long Tom carefully aimed into the sky. The nearest dive-bomber, the one Renny had already damaged, lurched suddenly aside, a fragment of wing spinning off. "Got him!" Long Tom yelled.

The aircraft veered away, hopefully dropping its bomb, which fell harmlessly a half-mile distant. It pulled up and away wildly, then a parachuted figure began falling to earth in the distance. The bomber itself began a slowly descending roll until it disappeared with only a cloud of smoke on the horizon to note its fate.

Monk and Renny scythed across the ranks of armor. Three more tanks became scrap metal, then two of the dive-bombers began their shrieking attack run.

"Monk!" cried Long Tom, firing at one of the bombers. "Aloft!" Monk instantly swung his machine about, and opened fire against the warbird screaming down at him.

It was a perhaps unfortunate decision. A shell from a Jaguar struck the left leg of Monk's Timberwolf. "I'm hit! I'm hit!" he reported. "I can hardly move this monster now!"

"Retreat at once," came Doc's calming voice over the radio.

With the terrible sluggishness of nightmare, Monk's machine dragged slowly away from the battlefield. More shells struck it as the enemy sensed triumph.

"Renny," Doc ordered. "Help cover Monk's retreat. I'm bringing the truck in to evacuate him."

"Roger," came the reply.

"Long Tom," Doc continued. "You as well. I'm afraid we've done as much as we can without risking our lives to no purpose."

"Doc . . ." came Roberts' weak protest.

"Monk needs your aid. Now." Doc Savage's voice remained calm, as if stating any simple fact.

"Right, Doc."

Long Tom, intimately familiar with the machine he had helped design, made it walk backwards towards the rendezvous point, keeping the left arm aimed and firing into the sky, discouraging the bombers.

Renny, who had moved quickly to the designated point, turned back to face the armored aggressors. "Try this for size!" he spouted, kicking out the glass plates by his feet and launching the full remainder of his rockets at the tanks. Two were destroyed, two more disabled, and three became trapped in the craters left by the rockets. He then let off a last Howitzer shell at the nearest tank before swinging open the hatch at his back and clambering down. First, though, he opened a small access port which revealed a simple red handle. The handle was stenciled with one word: "Danger!" He pulled the handle and deep inside, Diesel fuel began spilling into the mysterious machinery of the Timberwolf.

"Come on, Monk!" he shouted, as his friend's machine continued its awkward retreat.

Long Tom did his best to discourage both ground and air attack, but he knew it was even then a failing effort.

After what seemed an unthinkably long time, the three machines converged. Long Tom too let off a last salvo of rockets, and pulled the red handle to flood the machinery of his Timberwolf with Diesel. Monk simply scrambled down to the ground.

"Quickly!" commanded Doc. The three men ran to the waiting truck as shells and large-caliber bullets flew at them.

As soon as all were inside, Doc raced the machine away from the battlefield, heading north. The three grasped hands together. "It was good being Thunderwalkers together," intoned Renny. "Just wish we could have done it a little longer."

"Renny, Long Tom. You engaged the self-destruct mechanisms?" Those two nodded affirmations.

"You never told me about that!" protested Monk, startled.

Doc simply gestured away to the battlefield. Two of the machines were already bursting into an obscene crimson blossom of fire, and the third – Monk's – was quickly engulfed in the conflagration.

"As long as they don't know just how we did it, it'll slow 'em up," commented Renny. "With any luck, this whole mess will be over before they can figure out what we did, and our secrets will stay with us."

"Indeed," concurred Long Tom. "It is terrible to imagine a world filled with war machines as destructive as those."

"Or maybe," chimed in Monk, "maybe a world filled with armies of Thunderwalkers would make war too costly an option. Maybe things like those could actually make the world a better place."

Doc's trilling was a brief, bittersweet accent to the air. "Sadly, history has taught us many times that there will always be those who will use covet such weapons, and risk the use of them, regardless of the human cost. Remember, the Gatling Gun was thought to be such a weapon once, and I hardly need remind you that the use of gas in the Great War was first implemented precisely because it was thought to be so terrible it would end the conflict forthwith. You know what transpired."

Doc's three friends looked grimly at the floor of the car.

"It has been sometimes said, my brothers, that once the genie is out of the bottle, it can never be put back. I fear that despite our best and noblest intentions, the ultimate end of our endeavors may be that we have put all mankind under the threat of such brutal war machines – these, and even more terrible devices which science has yet to discover."

"But Doc!" protested Long Tom. "You make it sound like all mankind has to look forward to

is – is – some kind of never-ending race to keep coming up with bigger and better armaments!"

"That may be so," said Doc softly. "To a degree. But we must never lose the hope that there will be a day when enough good men rule the nations that we can finally put this madness behind us. There will always be evil in the world, and evildoers. But perhaps we can at least achieve a day when such criminals will be nothing but petty bank robbers and pickpockets rather than premiers and presidents."

Doc switched on the shortwave radio. "Attention, attention. City of Lodz Defense Forces. Code name Talos. Operation Timberwolf has – has not succeeded. Prepare for incursion by enemy armor within the next hour. Relay message with all speed to all forces. Talos out."

A grim silence gripped the vehicle and its occupants. After a time speeding through the still-peaceful countryside, Renny finally asked, "Where we going, Doc?"

"Gaska. Gaska and our _Helldiver._ And then – home."

Ham spoke. "What about that louse Sobieski, Doc?"

"I have already made reports to the appropriate authorities. They know now what he is."

"Poor Laddie," murmured Monk. "I just wonder . . ."

"I'm sure she'll be fine," commiserated Ham, for once abandoning the customary squabble with his friend. "She's a sweet kid, but as she herself stated, she is a soldier, too."

Monk gazed out the window and chewed at a fingernail as the car sped north to the coast.

The men sat mostly in silence, listening only to the shortwave radio. The radio told them news which was as discouraging as it was expected.

Lodz fell to the invaders after two hours. The platoons Doc's men had faced were elite Gray Guard units, but an entire regular army battalion arrived not an hour after the Timberwolves were immolated. General Kukarksi, commanding the city defense, surrendered quickly, hoping to save lives and preserve the city. He saved many, but not himself: after General Heenschmer, commanding the regulars, accepted his surrender and granted the terms he requested, the Gray Guard took him and hanged him. This news was enthusiastically communicated ahead to the rest of Poland by the Gray Guard as a warning to those who would resist the onslaught, and Lodz was made the capitol of the occupational government.

All this horror transpired in the next two and a half hours of Doc's urgent ride to the coast. As the rolling hill country of woods and wheatfields leveled out to coastal plain, Radio Warsaw announced that King Casimir and the royal family were embarking for an autumn holiday to nearby Sweden – a country famously neutral.

One of Doc's radios beeped out a brief message in Morse code. The words it spelled out were the cryptic message, "Dinner at Derby Club. See you for drinks." All his associates understood Morse, but were baffled by the obviously coded message. Long Tom, sitting in the front seat next to Doc, glanced at him, and opened his mouth to ask a question, but stopped. He knew this was of those times a question would elicit no answer.

The car sped along, and a roadsign pointed the way to the village of Gaska as ten kilometers to the west, and the large seaport city Gdansk, five straight ahead. Doc pushed up his speed straight ahead. Whatever the cryptic message had signified, it would happen in Gdansk.

Doc wove the vehicle through narrow waterfront streets, finally stopping at a large, unassuming brick warehouse right on the quayside. Something about it reminded Monk of their own Hidalgo Trading Company hangar in New York.

Presently, another car arrived. An army sergeant jumped out, opened the rear door, and out stepped Ladislava Vzynyk. Instinctively, both Monk and Ham took a step forward. With a glance, they told each other it was not the time to press their attentions on her.

"News?" Doc inquired curtly.

"I am to fly to Britain at once. A seaplane within," indicating the brick warehouse, "will take me to Liverpool. From there, I am expected to return to New York by sea. And in New York, I am to co-order – I mean, co-ordinate communication between the king and loyal military officers and citizens, all to the end of establishment a legitimate government in exile."

"You know how to get in touch with my office," stated Doc. "Contact me any time if you need any further assistance."

"Thank you, Mr. Savage." Laddie turned to the sergeant. "Go, Gerwazy. Do what you must."

The young sergeant saluted, and drove away.

"He is also with my task force," said Laddie. "He is to blow up dry-docks and other heavy facilities where Preussen ships might find usefulness for building and repair. Meanwhile, all forces are withdrawing to Warsaw, to assert strong defense, allow for departure of royal family and other government officials.

"Please, I must go. My pilot already is wait for me."

She turned to Renny and Long Tom. "Thank you," she said. "All Poland appreciate what you tried. You have our everlasting thanks. And you two also, of course," to Monk and Ham. She took the hands of each man in turn to shake.

Monk took her hand, looked into her eyes. "How's everything?" he asked.

Laddie's face turned hard. "I know all about the man I knew as Rychyk Sobieski. That is what make refer to, yes? Thank you." She took a deep breath, and all the men noticed then the redness in her eyes. "He was traitor. Traitor and dangerous spy. He is in custody. His real name is Alfons Keedieger but was known often by his code name of Mongoose." Laddie dropped Monk's hand and took another deep breath. "I countersign his execution order this morning. He will be shot at one minute before midnight tonight."

Monk bit his lip and nodded. He couldn't think of anything to say.

"Thank you," she repeated. "You are very sweet, Mr. Colonel Mayfair." She stretched over and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "Hopeful we all see each other again in New York." At last, a small, tight smile graced her lips. "Regard me to the Broad Way!" she called, trotting off to the seaplane hangar.

"It's 'Give my regards to . . . Broadway . . .' " Monk's voice trailed after her.

"Come, brothers. Time is short." The four turned at Doc's command and moved quickly to the truck.

Chapter XVIII – Homeward and Hope

Several hours later, _Helldiver_ poked her cautious way out of the Baltic and into the North Sea. She surfaced to conning tower depth, leaving the Preussen-patrolled waters behind them and into the waves which Britannia still ruled.

Doc stood with Long Tom as stars tried poking down through the clouds. The clouds themselves were bright as a moon still nearly full lit them from beyond. Long Tom was taking the first evening watch.

"Keep on this course until we clear the Scandinavian coastline," advised Doc. "Then due northwest. We'll be stopping to refuel at Scapa Flow, as we did on the way in. Ham will relieve you at midnight."

"Aye aye, Doc," responded the electrical wizard. He sighed deeply. "How bad do you think it's going to be?"

Silently, Doc looked long at the horizon. "There is no way to tell. If Poland's allies finally come to her aid, it may be over and done before we reach New York. If not – "

"You think America is going to get into this one, Doc?"

"There is no way to tell," the bronze man repeated. "I'm afraid I do not have the gift of second sight."

Long Tom grinned. "Sure seems like it sometimes, Doc!"

Doc remained somber and thoughtful. "Already there is disturbing news from the Far East. There are powers there who envy the United States her influence and possessions in the Pacific. If they are encouraged by Preussen aggression –and Preussen victories– they may become bold enough to take risks. They know that America remembers the Great War too well, and that we may consider discretion to be the better part of valor."

Somber again, Long Tom shook his head ruefully. "I just hope this thing doesn't somehow blow up into another world-wide war, Doc."

"We can only hope," said Doc Savage.

Author's notes/afterword

I hope you have enjoyed this Doc Savage Adventure. If you didn't already know, Doc Savage stories were some of the real original "pulp fiction," short novels which came out every couple of months as inexpensive magazine-style booklets. I have attempted to retain as much of the flavor of the real Doc Savage stories as possible, as if this was actually written in the '30s, as well as employing some characteristic Doc Savage touches – the names of guest characters especially! I grew up reading the Bantam paperback editions of Doc Savage (much to my mother's dismay), and always got a kick out of the names: Watches Bowen, Brick Palmer, Heck Noe, Saturday Loo. Also, of course, the mixing of actual places with thinly-disguised fictionalized locales. Also the gadgets. I was reading one of the originals not long ago, and one of Doc's secret devices was what we now would call an automatic garage door opener. _O tempore!_ I figured Doc should at least have figured out seat belts too.

And of course, the never-ending Ham & Monk Show. Abbott & Costello could have taken lessons. It was a bit of a challenge to keep this on course and not just a vehicle for more of their antics. I did slip a couple of touches of my own humor into this, though.

This was, if you didn't notice, or are unfamiliar with a certain franchise, a bit of a thematic crossover, although I'm not calling it as such in the directory. Although I've borrowed the name and basic design of one "Battlemech," this is obviously not the FASA universe of Clans and Inner Sphere and Trials of Grievance. Obviously too, the technology for Doc's Timberwolf is far different than what Jade Falcon Clan's MechWarriors have. I didn't want to have BattleMech fans come here, find something very much unexpected, and be displeased. However, much thanks to FASA for the concept, and especially to the game MechWarrior 2. But yes, that was the basic goal I was driving at, to get Doc Savage, or at least his men, into a 'Mech, and do some armor-stomping.

To any Doc Savage fans out there, and especially any purists: I'm very sorry that Doc had to lose an engagement! I guess he never did before. But then, as he himself observes, he never had to face the army of an entire nation before, either. And he _did_ succeed, or Renny & Long Tom did, with their original goal: they designed a built a battle machine which could take on the panzers. More seriously, I also had to resolve Doc's essential pacifism with the story; I hope I have succeeded on that score. Also, I may have gotten a bit more graphic with some of the more violent scenes than the originals (I'm thinking particularly of the basement executions.) This was in part a simple indulgence of more modern sensibilities (that is, I _did_ want to push the envelope a bit), but also, I wanted to emphasize that this was a very different foe Doc was up against, and much more dangerous. I hope you appreciated the cameo from Pat! I was always quite intrigued by her, and always wanted more of her than there ever was.

I achieved my other goal of reaching a reasonable length for a Doc Savage story. I abandoned an additional chapter or two where they would be captured again, just because I couldn't really justify it story-wise, was running short on ideas, and unlike the original writers, am not getting paid by the word (or at all.) Final note, the original stories were actually written by a stable of writers (which explains many of the odd twists and occasional inconsistencies across the stories) who were all published under the group pseudonym of Kenneth Robeson, and so it seemed only fitting I publish this under the name of Kenneth Robeson, Jr. I don't know if there will be any more, but with the right encouragement . . .

Thank you all again.


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